


Kaleidoscope

by elimymoons



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Mentions of Sexual Assault/Rape, Canon-Typical Violence, Exploring Sexuality, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimymoons/pseuds/elimymoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>etymology of <i>kaleidoscope (n.)</i>:<br/>1817, literally "observer of beautiful forms," from Greek <i>kalos</i> "beautiful, beauteous" + <i>eidos</i> "that which is seen: form, shape" + <i>skopeō</i>, "to look to, to examine".</p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>They are, the both of them, being ever so slowly pulled towards one another. They are magnetized: the north and south poles. They are the sun and the moon: radiant, reflecting light in the dark.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh this is my first ever SVU fic so i was really nervous about posting this for the longest time but this fandom is too small!!! so i'm going for it 8')) please let me know what you think and welcome to sonny carisi/rafael barba hell !

Sonny isn't quite sure how he ended up in this situation.

Behind him in the kitchen, Connie is laughing like a hyena, her half-mixed screwdriver sloshing out and around the edge of her cup, hands gesturing wildly in the air as she recounts a particularly vicious round of moot court a few weeks prior. Marcus isn't very far behind, intoxication flushing his face a deep rouge and  driving the sleeves of his sweater up past his elbows. The longer she speaks, the more apparent it is she's embellishing for the sake of storytelling, and Marcus snorts loudly and has to brace a hand on the counter to avoid falling over. Bruce, Carla, and Juan had made their way to the floor of the apartment nearly an hour before, and have only moved to refill drinks and take the semi-occasional bathroom break. Their contributions to Connie's story consist of mainly interjecting witty puns every third or fourth sentence.

And Ken? Ken is stretched backwards against the arm of the couch opposite him, dangerously close to ending up on the floor (though by his own ineptitude, or by Sonny himself shoving the other man off, he hasn't quite decided yet). Ken is an affectionate drunk (and a _handsy_ one at that) and Sonny normally doesn't mind that – he finds it a little endearing actually, the way he's always tucking Connie's tag back into her shirt or tucking loose locks of hair behind Juan or Carla's ears – but right now it is driving Sonny absolutely _bananas._

" _Please_ tell me, you're kidding, Sonny," Ken sputters, his head tipped back in a long line as he tries desperately not to laugh in Sonny's face (and yeah, the shoving Ken off idea is starting to look more and more appealing by the second). "Not even once? You never made out with Billy from chem class in the janitor's closet ("I _knew_ it!" Marcus howls in the background) or slipped out from like police boot camp ("Ken, oh my _god_ ," Bruce groans) for a quickie with a bro or anything?"

" _No_ ," Sonny says tightly, just this side of hysteria. His face is on _fire._ "And I didn't go to 'boot camp', I went to the Academy."

"Bring him over to the dark side, Kenny – pop his cherry!" Connie crows, and Bruce and Carla giggle from under the coffee table. Connie leans over the sink and rests her arms along the bar, waggling her eyebrows at the two of them. "Kenny, baby, you owe it to our brethren everywhere to show our little Staten Island boo the power of our _evil, gay agenda_."

Sonny nearly chokes on his drink, the cheap vodka burning all the way down his throat, up his nose, making his eyes water. Ken gives in, finally laughing out loud, and it's a deep rich sound that rolls down Sonny's back like electricity.

This is so very, very bad.

Ken rolls up into a sitting position, throwing a leg over Sonny's so he's straddling the man's lap, and bats his lashes over at Connie and Marcus. "Something like this, dear?" he drawls ‒ to Connie, obviously ‒ but Sonny still feels a hot flush crawl up his neck at the sound of it.

"I'm warning the DA about all of you," Sonny threatens, though it sounds garbled and far away. "They won't let you within fifteen feet of the courthouse." Ken and Connie are laughing at each other from across the room, and Ken is close enough that he can tell the man's wearing some type of spicy cologne, or deodorant, and Sonny is dizzy and drowning and _he has no idea how he ended up in this situation._

"Please, I'm going corporate," Marcus pipes up. " _It's all about the money, money_."

"You are such a sellout!" Connie laughs and punches him in the arm.

"Okay, Ms. 'My-Sugar-Mommy-Pays-For-My-College'," Bruce says with a snort from the floor.

"Jealous much?" Connie asks, batting her lashes.

Actually, scratch that. Sonny knows _exactly_ how he ended up in this situation.

 _Come celebrate_ , they'd said. _We've finally taken the bar,_ they'd said. _When are we going to have a better reason to celebrate?_ they'd said. Now Sonny has a lap full of a very warm, _very intoxicated_ classmate who's doing a very good job of making Sonny want to melt into the earth and stay there for a week.

Sonny says a prayer for his immortal soul.

"Hey, you okay?" Ken asks with a furrow in his brow, bringing Sonny back down to Earth. Connie and Marcus have moved back to their previous conversation, and he's pretty sure Juan and Carla are on the verge of passing out. He doesn't see Bruce immediately, but it _is_ Bruce's apartment (or Bruce and Connie's), and there are two large, warm, _distracting_ hands on Sonny's waist that are begging him not to care.

"Hey, man, I'm just winding you up," Ken says with a grin, his eyes crinkling from booze and exhaustion and the humor of the situation (except it's really, _really_ not funny). "And Connie's just being a brat, seriously – we don't have to do anything." Ken moves to roll off of him, but Sonny holds one hand up, causing Ken to pause.

"I'm not‒" And he stumbles over his words a bit, his tongue thick with liquor and nerves. He feels winded, and jittery, like he's just come crashing down from an adrenaline high. Sonny feels like he's shaking ‒ is he shaking? He hopes not. "I never said that," Sonny finishes lamely, downing the dregs of his mixed drink.

Ken's eyes are a deep, dark brown, bright and alert despite the liquor and late hour. There's just a hint of stubble on his face, dusting down his jaw and chin. Sonny's dying to know how it feels under his hands, his lips. _Bmp bmp bmp_ , his heart agrees.

Ken hums and hauls himself up and over to the other side of the couch, kicking his feet up and sticking cold toes under Sonny's warm thigh. Sonny throws a halfhearted glare Ken's way, even as Ken takes Sonny's empty glass and places it safely off to the side.

"Hey, come on," Ken teases with a lighthearted smack to Sonny's shoulder. He sobers up momentarily (or attempts to, if the lazy lines of his movements are any indication) leaning bodily against the back of the couch and staring over at Sonny. "I'm just messing with you, Sonny, I'm sorry," Ken says then, a little softer. He snorts, and mock-whispers theatrically, "Don't worry – your hyper-masculine heterosexual reputation remains unstained."

Sonny's heart rate picks up. His eyes dart to the side, to the floor, to his empty glass. "Can we talk about something else?" he asks and grabs someone's (he thinks it might be Carla's, but she's way over limit so it's _fine_ ) drink off the table and takes a long swallow. He's definitely shaking now.

Suddenly, Ken really does look sober. He straightens and stands, grabs at Sonny's wrist. "Come with me," he says, and pulls Sonny off the couch and towards the hallway.

Connie catcalls at them as they pass by the kitchen, and Ken yells, "Mind your damn beeswax!" over his shoulder at her. They stop at the bathroom and Ken pulls him in and locks the door behind them.

"Um," Sonny starts eloquently.

"I overstepped," Ken says to Sonny. He honestly does look contrite. "I made you uncomfortable. It was just harmless flirting, Sonny, but I shouldn't have gone overboard like that. I'm sorry."

"What are you talkin' about, 'overboard'? There's nothing to apologize for," Sonny says with a small, tight smile ‒ one that says _drop it, Ken_. "It's fine, Ken. We just took the fucking bar and we've been cramming for months and we're all tired and stressed out and–"

"Sonny," Ken starts.

"– _God_ , I have to be at work in like six hours, I really need to get home and shower at the very least–"

" _Sonny_ ," Ken tries again.

"–So if you don't mind," Sonny finishes with what he's sure is a reasonably steady voice, "I'm just gonna head out now."

"Sonny." Ken raises one slim hand and places it on Carisi's chest. They're almost the same height, but he still has to look up to look Sonny in the eye. His mouth is so fucking _dry_ and there's sand or pollen or fuckin' _glass_ in his throat, because Sonny is not about to break down in his classmate's damn bathroom‒

"I'm sorry," Ken says, very gently. "It's alright, okay? I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Sonny says brusquely, fighting the urge to scuff his shoe against the floor. He feels uncomfortably warm and too large in the small space, like the walls are closing in on them. He turns as if to leave ‒ _he needs to leave_ ‒ but hesitates, shifting ever so slightly so that they're chest to chest. He searches Ken's face for a hint of emotion, but he just looks up at Sonny with a calm, fairly blank expression, and Sonny roughly runs his hand through his hair.

"I've never done this before," Sonny admits in a choked whisper.

 _Bmp bmp bmp_ , goes his heart in the sterile, white room.

Ken's expression softens, just a hair. "It's alright," he says again and quirks a grin. "No one's saying you have to."

"But what if I–" Sonny cuts himself off, but it burns in the back of his throat. _What if I want to_ ? It's something he's wanted so badly, as far back as he can remember, but Sonny's afraid of what that means for him. Would it really be so bad to let go? He's not in Homicide anymore – not in Brooklyn or Queens or any of the nastier places he's worked (Manhattan's been so _good for him_ ), but he's terrified of how it'll change things – his relationships, how other people see him, how he sees _himself_ –

Ken looks up at him and brings his hands to Sonny's shoulders, the touch featherlight. "Do you want to?" he asks honestly, and Sonny's brain stutters to an absolute stop. Does he want to? Is he allowed to say yes? Does he need to _say yes_ or is Ken just going to _know_ ‒

Ken seems takes his silence for a no, because he's moving away and God‒ _damn it_ ‒

"I want to," Sonny croaks. Ken pauses, moves close enough to Sonny that he can feel the heat radiating from the other man. Fireworks are going off in his chest and he's pretty sure he's forgotten how to breathe. Is he supposed to lead? Is Ken? Should they be waiting 'till they both sober up a bit more or is that just going to make this whole thing a hundred times more awkward? Should he have asked Ken out on a date first?

Ken lifts a hand to brush the side of Sonny's neck; Sonny starts, but then leans into the touch, trying to calm his racing heart. "There's nothing wrong with experimenting," Ken says wisely, like he's said this to himself and others a thousand times before. "You don't have to like it, and you don't have to be upset if you do like it."

"I know that," Sonny whispers back, and he can feel Ken's breath on his neck.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Ken asks again, giving Sonny one last chance to chicken out.

And maybe Sonny's been hanging out with Barba or Finn too much, because he snaps maybe a little harshly, "You know I'm not _actually_ a virgin, right?"

Ken rolls his eyes with a smirk, and quips, "Don't fall in love with me, Romeo."

Then he pulls Sonny in for a kiss.

It's soft, almost hovering on the edge of too soft, but Ken tastes like orange juice and vodka and the pizza they'd all had three hours ago, and when Sonny sucks in a breath and cups his hands on either side of Ken's face, the stubble along his jaw is rough and firm where it's always been soft and smooth, and the hands that grip at Sonny are all but the antithesis of every girlfriend Sonny's ever had.

Sonny pulls back, chest heaving like he's run a marathon, tingling from the rush of something new. He knows his ears and face (and probably even his chest) are redder than a tomato, and his hands are trembling where they rest against Ken's neck, but when Ken looks at him and dryly asks, "You doin' okay up there?" Sonny decides _screw it_ and surges forward and captures the other man's lips in a decidedly dirtier encounter. There's teeth and tongue and Ken the goddamn bastard _laughs_ and just hooks a leg around Sonny's and leans back against the wall and gives back just as good as he gets.

"We are _so_ too drunk for this," Ken laughs finally, but he bites hard enough at a spot on Sonny's neck that is definitely going to bruise tomorrow and lavishes it generously with his tongue. "Go get your ass in a cab and go home so you can sleep before work, you newly minted man-kisser." Ken pats Sonny on the shoulder and adjusts himself slightly before giving himself a whole body shake and a smack in the face. "I am gonna go pass out on Connie's couch now," he says with a grin. "Text me tomorrow so I can razz you about your hickey or if you need to have your gay panic or something."

Sonny can do little else but bury his face in his hands and laugh. "Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole, Ken?"

Ken grins, shoots a finger gun at Sonny with a wink. "Only everyday of my life, my man."

Sonny's lips tingle the entire cab ride home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I tagged it in the fic, but I just wanted to give a heads up for description/recount of a rape/sexual assault in this chapter. Nothing too graphic, but if anyone wants to skip it, it's the scene after Ken's last text.
> 
> also thank you for all the kudos!!! c':

"You look like shit, Carisi," Amanda sings too loudly the next morning, strolling into the 16th just this side of tardiness.

Sonny grunts, turns his head so that it's facing _away_ from her, and rests his cheek more solidly into his paperwork.

"Ooh-hoo, look at that hickey," Fin snickers from his desk. Crap.

"Fuck you," Sonny moans and throws an arm over his eyes. "I will take both your Saturdays for a month if you just shut up and let me do paperwork today."

Amanda and Fin share a conspiratorial look. "A month each," Amanda counters. Fin high fives her.

Sonny takes it back. He hates Manhattan. " _Fine_ ," he grits out. "A month each. Now let me _die_."

They titter at him, and there's blessed _wonderful_ silence for about five seconds before he hears footsteps clicking over towards his desk and Sonny is going to _kill them both_.

A cup of coffee is set down in front of his nose. It smells _amazing_. Then Amanda leans in and whispers very quietly, "You want me to put some concealer on that neck 'a yours?"

"I love you," Sonny mumbles, nodding pitifully. "Please."

She snorts, softly, and rummages through her purse. Something cold and wet touches his neck as Amanda gently dabs some makeup against the very bright and angry bruise on his throat, camouflaging it to at least moderately match the rest of his pasty ass skin.

"There," she says after a minute. "That looks a little better."

"Thank you," Sonny says sincerely. "I'll buy you a cannoli when I'm done dying."

Amanda grins and pats his shoulder affectionately, sauntering back to her desk and falling into her chair with a sigh.

True to their words, they leave Sonny alone all morning (Fin even _volunteers_ to do door duty), and by lunch time, he's starting to feel less like death came and slammed him into a wall five times and more like a functioning adult human who might've had a little too much to drink the night before. On the bright side, Sonny's desk hasn't looked so organized in weeks, which is why he feels justified in pulling out his phone and tapping out a quick text to Ken.

He isn't quite sure what Ken's schedule during the day is, and he's not exactly expecting an immediate response from the other man, so it's a bit of a surprise when his phone buzzes a few minutes later.

Sonny hides an inelegant snort behind his hand.

Suddenly, Connie's anger is a lot more justifiable to Sonny. Dodds exits the break room then, stuffing a hoagie into his mouth in the way only a starving cop can, and he catches Sonny's eye and jerks his thumb back behind them then gives Sonny a thumbs up. Sonny grins and gives him a little wave in thanks and stands to go raid the food supply before Ramirez or Jones get there and clean them all out.

Lunch safely in hand, Sonny pulls his phone back out and continues:

Sonny doesn't get the chance ‒ Ken calls him first.

" _Time for the gay panic then_?" Ken's amused voice laughs in his ear. " _I've got to admit, I expected you to break sooner_."

"Hey come on, now, what kind of a guy do you take me for?" Sonny grumbles, wiping a stray crumb off his face.

" _The kind who isn't content with one-night stands and has to take people out on gross romantic dates and make them giant plates of spaghetti because they don't eat enough or some other ridiculous Italian stereotype_ ," Ken shoots back; and the gender neutrality of it strikes Sonny, but it's also… accurate. Stereotyping notwithstanding. " _Am I on the mark, or…?_ "

"You're hilarious," Sonny says dryly.

" _I wasn't kidding when I told you not to fall in love with me_ ," Ken suddenly blurts, and _wow_ , this conversation got real fast. " _I mean‒ yeah, I'm gay and I like guys and stuff, but I… don't. Do romance. At all. Like, ever. I know, ha ha 'gays are slutty and can't commit'‒_ "

Sonny's never heard Ken sound nervous before, he realizes. _This_ is what Ken sounds like when he's nervous, all brusqueness aside. Sonny opens his mouth to respond, but Ken beats him to it once again.

" _Aromantic is the word_ ," Ken continues. " _You're a great friend, Sonny, and I really, really mean that._ "

"Gee, and here I thought we had something special," Sonny remarks. "Do I have to return the matching monogrammed sweaters I got us, or...?"

" _You're a dick!_ " Ken laughs, and hangs up in his face.

And immediately calls back.

" _I'm sorry, I get catty when I'm stressed_ ," Ken confesses. " _Are you free Friday night? I know this great place in the Village with no cover and dollar shots‒_ "

"You say while I'm battling the hangover of my life," Sonny laughs.

" _Let me finish!_ " Ken laughs back. " _So okay, the club is loud, but friendly, and easy to blend into if you just wanna dance or drink or whatever, so‒ if you wanted to, say, explore your 'wild side'_ ‒" Sonny barely contains a snort, and Ken blows a raspberry at him, "‒ _hey, I am being a considerate gay here, you dick! Label yourself however you want; I'm not here to put words in your mouth_."

That's… oddly considerate. Sonny deliberates.

"...Yeah," he says after a second. "Okay, yeah, that sounds like fun."

" _Ugh, you're adorable, they're going to eat you alive_ ," Ken groans good-naturedly. " _You better not hog all the action, Carisi._ "

"What can I say?" Sonny says. "I'm charismatic."

* * *

 

Sonny snorts, but simply pockets his phone, turning back to his pad and scribbling some new notes in the margins.

"You' been on your phone an awful lot today, Carisi," Amanda slyly says, peering at him over her monitor. "You wouldn't happen to be talkin' to the girl who gave you that hickey, would you?"

Damn it. Sonny feels his traitorous face burn with a blush. "I don't know about you, Rollins, but I'm not one to kiss and tell," he says back, voice reasonably steady. "Come on, don't you have something better to do than wheedle me about my social life?"

"Nope!" Amanda chirps, and _damn_ , she's like a dog with a bone. She's frighteningly like Sonny's sisters that way ‒ digging her heels in at the first whiff of gossip, preying on Sonny's horrible inability to poker face against a pretty smile and a _Please, Sonny, Mom ain't gonna find out_ ‒

"Got a case," Dodds calls, popping his head out of the door. "Need someone to take the girl's statement ‒ Carisi, Rollins, you good?"

"Actually, Fin and I‒" Amanda starts.

Sonny waves a hand. "Nah, it's cool, I'm feelin' better. You wanna drive?"

Amanda perks at that. "Yeah, let me grab my coat."

The 'girl' is actually a twenty-six-year-old gogo dancer named Rebecca who lives in Chelsea. She has a pretty sizeable bruise stretching along her jaw, and her arm is in a thick, freshly-wrapped cast. Her roommate, Jessie, greets them at the door and mother hens around Rebecca for a minute before reluctantly leaving them to talk.

"I don't know why I had to open my big fat mouth," she's saying into her sweater. "This was a mistake, I'm sorry."

"Now, now," Amanda says, gently, soothingly. "Why don't we take this all one step at a time, alright? Can you just walk us through what happened?"

"He's my best friend's boyfriend's best _friend_ ," she blurts. "This is going to cause so much drama‒"

"You think your friend isn't going to understand?" Sonny asks.

"It was his birthday," Rebecca says, bitterly. "He and Mark went out for drinks and then came over to Tasha's place and we played some drinking games. I was on the floor wasted, trying not to fall asleep. And he‒ he comes over, lays down next to me, starts kissing me." She tucks her legs up to her chest, her eyes so wide and lost. "I tried rolling over. I said _no_. I think? God, I don't even know, I was so drunk. But he just‒ he put his hand in my pants, and." She takes in a shuddering breath.

"Did you disclose to anyone? Did you ask for a rape kit?" Amanda asks, gesturing to the cast. She shakes her head jerkily, hair flicking around her head from the motion.

"I‒ I called my roommate, and I was crying, and I guess it pissed him off because he smacked me and shoved me, and then Jessie came over and pulled me out and took me to the ER and‒" She buries her face in her knees and just breathes for a minute. "I told her when we got home. She told me I should call you guys." She hesitates, then lowers one leg to kick a plastic shopping bag at them. "Those are the clothes I was wearing. Jessie said you'd want those, too."

Sonny smiles at her, his muscles loose, trying to look as safe and unobtrusive as possible. "That's good, Rebecca. It's very helpful," he says. He pauses, takes in her grungy hair, the faint smudge of day-old liner and mascara. "When did this happen, Rebecca?" he asks, slowly.

"Last night," she answers miserably.

Amanda stills. "Have you showered since last night?" she asks. Then, hesitantly: "Did he use a condom?"

She shakes her head to the first question. "We don't have a tub, and I‒ haven't been feeling up for a shower. I washed my face in the sink earlier. I. I don't know if he used a condom."

"Do you think you'd be okay with heading back to the hospital to get an exam?" Sonny asks.

"Your roommate can come with, keep you company?" Amanda adds helpfully.

For some reason, her face crumples in misery. "Tasha is going to hate me," she says, and she starts to cry.

"Hey, hey," Sonny says gently; he cautiously rests a hand against her shoulder ‒ a light touch: one that says _there is comfort here if you need it_. At the touch, she leans into him, and Sonny pulls her into a hug. "It's not your fault," Sonny murmurs.

Jessie is watching them, agonizingly silent in the kitchen.

Sonny hates these days the most.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, thank you for reading!! c': no real warnings this chapter, but we do finally get to see barba!!! yay!!
> 
> enjoy! :D

"Ugh," Sonny says, knocking back a cheap shot. "This is awful," he continues, but orders another.

"Rough day?" Ken asks, a shot in each hand. He takes them one after the other.

"Rough couple of days," Sonny admits, but he doesn't offer anything more. He'd actually said the rosary in his car on his lunch break. It‒ had helped. A little.

Ken doesn't push the subject for once, merely grabs Sonny's hand after he's finished with his shot and pulls him into the throng.

The music is loud, but not overly so, and Sonny is content to follow Ken for the moment as he slithers through grinding, sweaty, _masculine_ bodies scattered about the dance floor. Ken finds them a relatively clear spot ‒ close to the bar, but still far enough in that Sonny'll have to bump elbows to get back to it (Ken probably planned it that way, the meddling jerk) ‒ and beams, widely, throwing his arms up in the air.

"What do you think?" he asks loudly into Sonny's ear.

Sonny catches the eye of a guy dancing not too far off; he's tall and broad, and grins easily when he sees Sonny looking. A hot flush crawls up his neck.

"It's nice," Sonny stutters out eventually, his blush darkening when Ken follows his line of sight and laughs.

"Keep up that sweet Brooklyn boy act and you'll have them eating out of your palm in no time," Ken assures him; his grin turns wicked. "Okay, bye now!" he calls, and darts off into the crowd.

"Wh‒ _Ken_!" Sonny shouts after him, scandalized. But Ken is smaller and quicker and has the advantage of knowing the terrain and Sonny is going to _kill Ken‒_

"Hi," a warm voice says easily in his ear. Two hands slide across his hips, flirty, forward, but a respectable-enough distance from his ass that Sonny doesn't immediately blush. Much. "Do you wanna dance?" the guy behind him asks and Sonny's heart stutters to a stop in his chest.

"I'm‒ not much of a dancer," Sonny admits, a thrill skirting down his spine. A warm, solid weight presses against his back; lips brush against the shell of Sonny's ear. 

"You're doing fine so far," he teases, and Sonny is going to die, right here. Out on this dance floor. It's partially true ‒ the alcohol does a decent job at loosening Sonny's limbs, but he's _nervous_ as hell. It's one thing to admit to an‒ attraction, or whatever it is that's driving him to want to kiss guys, in a private, safe space, but it's a whole other ballpark to go out and grind against someone he's never met at a gay bar in Greenwich Village.

And yet, Sonny is having _fun_. He feels heady, electric, like all his synapses are firing off at once, leaving him an oversensitive bundle of nerves that crackle and pop with every rough drag of hands against his waist, of lips against his ear, of coarse facial hair against his neck.

"The guy you came in with," his dance partner says then. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"We're just friends," Sonny tells him. He spins around, brazen in the way he'd told his sister Theresa _yeah T, I can pull off a chevron, wanna bet?_ , and pulls the other man impossibly closer, his own hands slipping across warm, wide shoulder blades. When Sonny looks at him he smiles, white, perfect teeth practically glowing against his dark skin and lips.

"I'm Darren," he offers, oddly demure as he looks down at Sonny through long, thick lashes.

"Sonny," he replies. _Bmp bmp bmp_ , his heart confirms.

Darren's hands dip lower. "There's some lounge chairs on the far side," he mentions lightly. "You wanna have a seat and… talk, for a bit?"

Sonny smiles, long and slow. "Sure," he says easily.

They don't talk for very long.

* * *

"You should arrest yourself for public indecency," Ken says with a laugh, collapsing into a chair opposite him with a satisfied groan. He looks loose and warm, and there's glitter on his chest and face where there wasn't any before. "I gotta admit, though ‒ I wasn't expecting you to still be here," he continues after a beat, waggling his eyebrows.

Sonny raises a brow of his own. "I'm not really the type to abandon my friends without a heads up," he comments dryly, but his initial anger has faded into a faint annoyance, and Darren had been _very_ good at taking his mind off Ken's earlier betrayal.

"Ouch, Sonny," Ken snorts, pressing a dainty hand to his chest in mock outrage. "I was watching you from a safe distance." Then he leans forward with an impish grin. "But aren't you glad I left? You looked pretty cozy over here."

Sonny lets himself grin back. "Yes, fine, I had fun, I got his number ‒ is that what you wanna hear?"

Ken fist pumps. "Look at you, being all gentlemanly," he laughs. "You gonna call him?"

Sonny allows himself a moment to relish his… conversation with Darren: the rasp of his beard against Sonny's jaw, the way his warm, calloused fingers tangled themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck. He finds himself nodding, shyly pleased. "I think I might," he admits with a small smile.

"Augh, you're so _adorable_ ," Ken laughs as he flops backwards in his seat. "I'm never taking you out with me anywhere again ‒ you're gonna take all my action."

"I'll leave you my rejects," he says magnanimously, and Ken snorts and throws an ice cube from his drink at Sonny.

Sonny's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out with a frown. It's the Lieutenant.

" _Carisi, I know it's Friday night_ ‒" Olivia starts in his ear.

Sonny stands, covers his other ear with one finger so he can hear. "Hey, no worries, Lieu. What's up?"

" _We caught a break in the Mitchell case," she tells him. "A bunch of letters between him and Rogers ‒ boxes of them. We need someone to go through them with a fine-toothed comb before court on Monday._ "

And that's when Carisi knows his weekend is done. He waves at Ken, who just smiles and wiggles his fingers in a _go on_ motion, and begins to make his way out of the club. "No worries, Lieutenant, I'm gonna be on call in‒" Carisi checks his watch, "like, two hours anyway, so it's not a bother. I can be at the precinct in like, forty minutes."

Olivia's light laugh is warm, affectionate. " _I actually need you to go down to Barba's office. How soon can you get there?_ "

"Barba's working at ten p.m. on a Friday?" Sonny asks before he can stop himself. He laughs and shakes his head. "Of course he is. I'm in the area actually, so maybe‒" Sonny eyes the road and sees a bus stop a couple blocks down, "‒Twenty minutes? Depending on traffic?"

Her relief is palpable, even over the phone. " _I'm really sorry about this, Carisi. Rollins is there now, but her babysitter has a family emergency, and she needs to get home to Jesse_ ," Olivia says, and at least she sounds apologetic.

Sonny grins. "The perks of being single and childless," he quips as he strides out into the cool night air. "I'm gonna catch a bus and text Barba. Call me if you need anything else, Lieu."

" _Of course_ ," Olivia smoothly replies; Sonny hears Noah squeal in the background and he smiles, despite himself. " _Thank you, Carisi._ "

Sonny feels her approval envelop him like a blanket. He grins, suddenly shy. "Yeah, it's no problem, Lieu. I'll call you if I find anything."

" _Copy that_ ," she says, and that's the end of their conversation.

He's wearing jeans and his hair's a mess, but he makes good time, and sixteen minutes later he's intercepting a delivery boy right outside Barba's office who recognizes him with a smile and a wave.

"Already taken care of, Detective," he says when Sonny tries to pay. "See you later!"

"I got food," Sonny announces, knocking on the doorjamb to announce his presence.

"Oh, thank god," Barba says from a stack of papers about chest high. "I was beginning to think that was never going to get here." He reaches blindly for the bags, his eyes still glued to the mess in front of him, scribbling notes on a legal pad to his right. Sonny hands the bags over and Barba doesn't even take a breath before he's pulling out a carton of noodles and shoving a fork in them.

"Thanks again for this, Carisi," Amanda says with a tired smile. "I'd stay and fill you in, but‒"

Sonny smiles. "Go home to your kid, Rollins; I got this."

Amanda sighs, looking very suddenly like the exhausted single mom she is, and pulls Sonny into a quick hug. She wrinkles her nose. "Ugh, you smell like a bar."

"Coincidentally," Sonny starts, "that is where I came from."

Barba's eyes flick up at that and he takes in Sonny's casual attire. "I'm sorry, Detective Carisi, are we interrupting your Friday night?" he asks dryly.

"You know I always got time for you, Counselor," Sonny says breezily, falling into the chair opposite Barba; Amanda ducks out with one final wave, and he asks, "The Lieutenant says we got letters?"

Barba nods around his lo mein. "Not just letters ‒ some emails, journals," He scowls briefly, "descriptive fantasies disguised as poorly written prose and poetry."

Sonny barely holds back a grimace. Mitchell is one sick bastard. "Alright, so what are we looking for?" he asks, grabbing a carton at random. Beef and broccoli. Score.

"Anything I can use," Barba admits. "Corroboration, patterns ‒ anything that proves that Mitchell crossed the line or made plans before their attempted 'getaway' so I can bump the charges up to a class A."

Sonny hums and pulls out a highlighter. They work in relative silence, swapping cartons of food back and forth, scribbling notes on each other's pads.

"Hey," Sonny pipes up a few hours in. "Can I get that email correspondence from the fifteenth again?"

Barba passes it over wordlessly and Sonny scans it with careful eyes, highlighter cap caught between his teeth. He drags the bright pink pen across a line of text and flips it over to show to Barba.

"There's missing information here," Sonny tells him; he hands Barba a few more highlighted pages. "They keep referencing conversations or stories or whatnot that isn't in any of the other stuff we got here."

Barba eyes the papers thoughtfully. "Is there another email account we don't know about?" he asks. "Chat logs?"

Sonny shakes his head. "Not that we can tell. And the stories, I mean‒ they're disgusting and graphic, but any attorney worth their salt is just gonna argue they're harmless fantasies. Fiction's protected under the First Amendment."

"Thank you, Counselor Carisi," Barba booms with a smirk. "Maybe you'd also like to argue that _all_ their communications were protected under the First Amendment, too?"

Sonny shoots him a Look. Then he freezes. "A blog," he blurts. Now it's Barba's turn to shoot Sonny a look. "No, no‒" Sonny starts flipping through the papers on the table, searching for a specific page. "Michelle Rogers, she's got a blog ‒ what kid today doesn't have a blog?" He finds the one he's searching for and shoves it at Barba. "See?"

Barba looks the email over, one brow raised. "Okay, so she has a blog. But we checked all her posts; there wasn't anything on it."

"But did we check _his_ blog?" Sonny asks.

Barba pauses.

"Mitchell has a blog," Barba says slowly, testing it out.

"Dollars to donuts they follow each other," Sonny says, grinning. "The missing convos aren't on their cell phones, email accounts, or chat logs. How else are they communicatin' ‒ carrier pigeons?"

"Hold on, I've got his IP history somewhere around here," Barba mutters, ducking under the table to dig through one of the boxes on the floor.

Sonny's phone begins to buzz on the table beside him. He frowns, looks at the number. "Carisi," he says when he answers.

" _Detective Carisi?_ " a small voice asks. It's Rebecca. Sonny straightens. " _Detective Carisi, I'm sorry it's so late, but you said that if I needed to, I could call you‒_ " Her voice wobbles. " _Oh god, it's one in the morning‒ I can call back‒_ "

"Hey, hey, Rebecca, I said you could call anytime and I meant it," Sonny replies. "What's wrong?"

" _He left flowers outside my door,_ " she blurts.

Sonny frowns. "You mean Frank?" he asks slowly.

" _T-there was a knock on the door, but when I checked the peephole no one was there, and then I opened the door and‒_ " Rebecca has to take another breath. "Had a great time the other night. I want to return the favor. Can't wait to see you again. I miss you already. _What the_ fuck?" she hisses, voice cracking. " _What does he mean_ 'return the favor' _?_ "

"I want you to lock your door, Rebecca," Sonny says, soft and soothing. "Check all the windows and make sure they're bolted, too. I can have uniforms there in less than five minutes. Do you feel safe staying there? Do you want me to come down there?"

Barba's watching him from the other side of the table, very quietly.

" _Jessie and I just put in a new deadbolt,_ " Rebecca answers softly. " _No, I‒ you don't have to do that. I don't think he'd break down the door just to get to me. I just want to be able to sleep._ "

"I'm gonna send someone to sit outside your apartment building anyway, okay? Just in case," Sonny says. "Okay, I want you to take a picture of the flowers and the note that Frank sent you and text them to me. Then when you get up in the morning, the officer is gonna escort you down to the precinct and we'll fill out some reports, alright?"

" _O-okay,_ " she whispers. " _Thank you, Detective Carisi._ "

"You sure you don't want me to come down and sit with you?" he asks again.

" _No,_ " Rebecca answers, sounding much firmer than she did thirty seconds ago. " _No, Jessie took the night off and she's here with me. I'll be okay. Thank you so much, Detective Carisi. I'll see you in the morning._ "

"You bet," Sonny says. "And call me if anything else happens, okay?"

"One of my future cases?" Barba ventures once he's hung up the phone.

"I don't know," Sonny admits. "The whole thing's pretty murky from a legal standpoint. Assault, probably ‒ I mean her arm's in a Goddamn cast ‒ but they were both plastered and until the rape kit and her clothes come back from the lab, we don't have any physical evidence that they had sex. He's windin' himself up for a stalking charge, though," Sonny finishes darkly.

Barba nods, thoughtfully. "She's lucky to have you looking out for her, Carisi."

Sonny looks up, oddly touched. His chest squeezes momentarily. "Thanks, Counselor."

Barba smirks and throws a binder-clipped stack of papers at Sonny. "Find me Mitchell's dirty blog posts and then you'll have earned your pat on the head."

Sonny prays that Barba doesn't see him blush.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!! :')) i'm glad everyone is enjoying the fic! the only applicable warnings are some light-ish biphobia.
> 
> enjoy!!!

Sonny's passed out on one of the couches in the lounge when his phone goes off by his head, its loud tinny ring blasting him into consciousness like a bucket of ice water to the face. He jerks and sprawls, and not even the jacket he was using as a pillow cushions his descent from the couch to the floor.

"Ugh," Sonny moans, and Officer Nguyen giggles from behind her book.

"Can we just pretend that didn't happen?" Sonny jokes feebly before grabbing his phone and sliding the green icon to the right. "Carisi."

There's a brief, polite pause. " _I'm sorry, do I have the right number?" a distinctly male voice asks. "This is, ah, Darren? From the other night?_ "

Sonny blinks. "Darren?" he asks. He grabs his jacket and gives Nguyen a parting wave, then ducks over to a more secluded spot. "Oh! Yeah, yeah, hey!" Something like butterfly wings flutter in his chest. "Hey, sorry, this is Sonny, yeah."

Darren laughs, warm and rich even through the phone. " _Hi Sonny,_ " he replies. " _Um, so I know protocol dictates you wait three days before calling, but‒_ " He laughs again, but this time it sounds shy and sweet.

Sonny bites his lip, his eyes darting back to Nguyen, who's so buried deep in her book she probably wouldn't notice if someone pulled the fire alarm on them. He lowers his voice anyway. "I'm only sorry I didn't call first," he says, grinning. "What are you up to?"

" _Nothing much,_ " comes the pleased reply. " _I had the afternoon off ‒ I'm actually in Times Square, and I think I remember you saying you worked in Midtown? And I was wondering if you maybe wanted to grab a cup of coffee._ "

Sonny takes a quick breath and checks his watch. "I think I can take a thirty," he says far more easily than he feels. "You gotta place in mind?"

" _Sure do! I'll text you the details,_ " Darren says. " _See you soon, Sonny._ "

"Yeah," Sonny says, breathlessly.

* * *

"I hope you don't mind this little impromptu coffee date," Darren starts with a smile that's probably as sweet as his latte. "I'd been planning to ask you on an _actual_ date the other night at the bar, but I lost track of you, and I didn't want to be _that_ guy who justs texts 'netflix and chill?' and a bunch of eggplant emojis."

Sonny snorts into his coffee, barking out a laugh. "Well, I'm not gonna lie ‒ my weekends are gonna be kind of busy for the next couple' months, but ah," he ducks his head shyly, "I could probably do dinner one weeknight, or try and spring a Friday off if that's something you're interested in?"

"Mr. Detective!" Darren booms with a laugh, approvingly. "I could be persuaded into a weeknight date. Are you busy this Friday?"

Darren is sweet, and charming, and a middle school music teacher, of all things. He likes his espresso strong and elaborately decorated with sweet syrups and toppings and, when he's not out clubbing, he apparently likes to wear green argyle sweater vests.

Sonny's a little smitten, to be honest.

"So," Darren says, wiping a bit of cream from his beard, "do you like being a cop? Is it all fast-paced car chases and villain-catching like in the movies?"

"God, no! Nothing that exciting." Sonny smirks, takes a sip from his own drink. "I mean, we've had our share of car chasing and," and Sonny laughs a little, " _villain-catching_ , but it's hardly an everyday sorta' thing."

"That's not what I hear on the news," Darren says approvingly, his lips twisting into a smile. "I mean, didn't you just arrest a pedophile that was working for the NYPD?"

Darren says it almost _adoringly_ , but Sonny's insides twist just thinking about Hank Abraham, and the images that had been on his hard drive, and he would _very much_ like to talk about anything else. "I mean," Sonny says, taking a nervous sip of his drink, "yeah, there are times when shit hits the fan all once ‒ you know, we're always understaffed at Special Victims ‒ but most of the time I end up knockin' on doors, filling out paperwork, or sitting at the courthouse waiting to testify for this, that, or the other. 'Lotta late nights, you know?

"I mean I love it," Sonny says with a wave of his hand, "don't get me wrong ‒ I love gettin' to help people, and‒ and makin' a difference in their lives, you know? I mean‒ it's all I ever wanted to do. Help people." Sonny ducks his head shyly, fingers tapping out a rhythmless beat against his coffee. "‒Sorry," he mumbles eventually, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

"What? No!" Darren laughs, all teeth. "That was really sweet. It's really refreshing to hear a person get into law enforcement and still have those kinds of ideals. Are they, ah..." Now it's Darren's turn to tap against his cup. "Are they pretty accepting at your precinct?"

"Hmm?" Sonny blinks for a moment, unsure of the question. Then he gets it. "Oh!" he blurts. He laughs, a bit nervously. "Ah, to be honest, this is all really new to me ‒ dating guys, and whatnot. I mean, it's um, not something I've ever had the‒ courage? To do before? I mean, ah. Is that okay?" Sonny realizes, belatedly, that this guy may not like the idea of seeming like he's a‒ a phase, or an experiment. He takes a sip of his coffee to make himself shut the _frick up_.

But Darren just beams at him and says, "Hey, no, it's okay ‒ don't worry about it." He gives a small, one-shouldered shrug. "I mean, it takes some guys years to figure out they're gay, let alone feel safe enough to be open about it."

"No, I don't think I'm gay," Sonny muses, propping his chin on his hand. "Maybe‒ bisexual? I think? I'm still kinda tryin' t' figure it out myself."

An awkward, almost painful silence falls onto the table between them. Sonny glances at Darren uncertainly, who suddenly has a near unreadable look on his face.

"Hey, that's cool," Darren finally says, but his voice sounds strained. "Don't worry about it ‒ you'll come out eventually; no need to sweat the details." Darren looks a bit... uneasy; he waves his hand, takes a quick sip of his drink. "I'm sorry, that's such a‒ let's talk about something else. Um! So tell me about your family!" Darren laughs a little, albeit nervously.

_You'll come out eventually_. The way Darren says it sits sour on his tongue, wedged so far back it burns. Sonny's aware of the awkward silence stretching out between them, but all Sonny can hear is _you'll come out eventually_ , like a sharp lump at the back of his throat.

What exactly does he mean by that?

Something dull and heavy and reeking kind of like shame slips right below his breastbone. It occurs to Sonny that maybe while it's… acceptable to come out as gay in these types of settings, it might not be the same for someone like Sonny, who yes, wants to have sex with men, but also likes having sex with women, as well. Is there something wrong with being bisexual? Does that make him extra slutty or something? Ken and Connie have been… very understanding of everything Sonny's been going through, looking back on it. But was that not the case for everyone else?

Sonny feels his cheeks burn a bit, and not in a very pleasant manner. "Yeah," he finally says. "I got uh, three sisters ‒ my sister Bella just had a baby, and, God, that kid is just the cutest little thing‒ all cheeks and toes and…"

The conversation stays on simpler topics the rest of Sonny's break.

* * *

There's a stack of surveillance reports that seems to have tripled overnight when Sonny trudges into the bullpen Monday morning, and Ken is yakking non-stop in his ear.

" _‒And I can't stop checking to see if the scores are in, Sonny, I'm going crazy!_ " Ken groans longsufferingly. " _I literally was up at two a.m. last night just. Refreshing the page. Over and over again. I'm dying, here!_ " There's a sound of utter frustration from the end of the line. " _Connie was laughing, but I know she was doing the same thing._ "

"The test results probably aren't gonna be posted for like a month or two," Sonny says, but privately, he's going a little nuts, too. He falls into his chair with a sigh and picks up the top page of transcripts and frowns. "The only thing we can do is wait and suffer and bitch at our classmates."

" _Touchy, touchy,_ " Ken remarks. " _So have you called Mr. Hunk yet?_ "

Sonny pauses to take a look around the room; it's still early, so there's only a couple of people in, but he still lowers his voice, shifts his cell to his other ear. "Um. Yeah, about that. Can I ask you a question?"

" _Sure thing, Sonny, what's up?_ "

"Is it, ah‒" Sonny feels embarrassed all over again. Is this something he should really be making a big deal out of? "Is it like, weird, or slutty or something to be attracted to both men and women? Is saying you're bisexual just like, a stepping stone to saying you're gay?"

There's a weird half-scoff, half laugh from the other end of the line. " _No??_ " Ken says incredulously. " _Whatever gave you that idea, you loon?_ "

"Well, I mean. Agghh." Sonny scrubs a hand across his face. He's making a mountain out of a molehill. "Do gay guys not like bi guys or something?"

" _I mean, I don't have a problem with bi guys. Wait, did someone call you slutty because you used the word bisexual? Do I have to beat someone up?_ "

"What? No! Nothing like that." Sonny groans. "I'm makin' an ass outta' myself here. I'm overreacting. And you're like a buck twenty sopping wet ‒ you couldn't kick my grandma's ass if she was passed out and hog-tied in the bathtub."

" _I take offense to that!_ " Ken laughs. Then he asks, " _You sure you're okay? No one said anything rude to you?_ "

"No, Ken, I'm fine," Sonny promises. "Now, do you wanna hear how I got a date on Friday or...?"

" _Uhh? Yes!! Spill it, Carisi!_ "

Ken eventually hangs up to go pass out before work, Amanda, Fin, and Dodds all roll in, and Olivia pops out of her office long enough to hand a stack of files to them all before running down to the courthouse to testify for the Mitchell case's preliminary hearing. Fin eyes the folders on his desk distastefully and turns to Amanda with a hopeful look on his face, but one sharp glare from Rollins gets that shut down fairly quick; Dodds is already flipping through his own stack with a look of tired resignation.

Carisi checks his watch; it's just after eight, so Barba isn't due in court for another forty-five minutes, and Sonny _did_ end up finding Mitchell's blog (they were following each other, because _of course_ )...

He pulls out his phone.

 

 

It's not quite a thank you, but Sonny wasn't really expecting one anyway.

"Hey Carisi, I gotta get some witness statements down in Chelsea," Dodds starts around his coffee. Sonny's phone buzzes in his lap, Darren's name flashing momentarily on the screen. "You still gotta talk to the guy in that date rape case, right?"

"Frank Russo," Sonny confirms. Dodds is _technically_ still supposed to be on desk duty for another few days, but it's not like they're chasing rapists down dirty or lugging stacks of evidence boxes across town, so if Dodds is going a little stir crazy and wants to be productive, Sonny isn't certainly going to stop him. "He works nights, so he should be home if we pop by."

"Cool, you can ride with," Dodds says, shoving an impressively large bagel into his mouth. He doesn't even get crumbs all over his tie like Sonny does. "Hey, Fin, will you give me a buzz if the Weber results come back from the labs?"

"Sure thing, boss man," Fin says with a grin, and Dodds rankles like a huffy cat.

"That'll happen for a while," Sonny says cheerfully when they're walking out to the car. "The hazing, I mean." He doesn't mention he's just glad that _he's_ the one not getting hazed anymore, but... It _is_ kind of satisfying to see someone else get the New Guy treatment.

Dodds shoots Sonny a look like he wants to do something juvenile like blow a raspberry or stick his tongue out. He settles with wrinkling his nose and getting in the car without another word on the subject. Sonny wonders idly if Mike Dodds ever got to really act like a kid, growing up with a dad like the deputy chief.

Witness canvassing is always a long, boring affair, and by the time they get to Russo's place, Sonny is itching to talk to someone who'll do something more than say _sorry, I didn't see anything_ or give rude, disinterested shrugs (even a someone who is, at best, an abusive dick and, at worst, an abusive, manipulative rapist).

Frank Russo is a six foot, 'buck seventy, _ex-wrestler_ , and seeing him blearily hulking in the door of his apartment at ten thirty in the morning, Sonny isn't hard-pressed to imagine how easily he could snap Rebecca Wheeler's wrist like it was a toothpick.

"Frank Russo?" Dodds opens; he smiles, all charming detective. "Good morning, sorry to bother you so early in the morning. I'm Detective Dodds with the NYPD, and this is my partner Detective Carisi."

Russo grunts, then blinks. "Okay...?" he says.

"We just have a few questions for you regarding the night of the twenty-fourth?" Sonny steps in; he pulls a friendly smile on his face, as well, though inwardly he's looking for tells. The guy carries himself with the sort of arrogance that's always set Sonny's teeth on edge, but arrogance does not equal guilt. At least, it didn't before Sonny got to SVU; now, it's usually more an omen than anything.

"Yeah, that was my birthday," Russo replies. He props his arm on the door frame and does one of those weird, muscle-flexing things guys who are always working out do. Is it meant to be a subtle display of dominance, or is Sonny just weirdly hypersensitive to guys flexing their muscles now?

_Focus, Sonny_. "Right, right ‒ hey, listen, you mind if we come in? So we don't have to do this in the hallway?" Sonny's tall, but he's slender, and with bright and shiny Mike Dodds with him, the two make a pretty friendly-looking pair.

So of course Russo lets them in.

"Right," Sonny says, notepad in hand. Dodds is beside him on the couch, looking politely interested, but Sonny can tell he's quietly checking out their surroundings. "So, can you walk me through your night, starting‒" Sonny pretends to check his notes. "Around eight o'clock?"

"Uh, I was at the bar with a buddy of mine," Russo starts. "We partied, then we went over to his girlfriend's place and hung out till we all passed out."

"Their names?" Sonny prompts. Mark and Tasha, but Sonny already knew that. "And what'd you guys do when you got to Tasha's place? Who all was there?"

Now that Russo's woken up a bit more, he's starting to figure out something's not all sunshine and daisies. "Uh, me, Mark, Tasha, and one of Tasha's friends, I think," he says slowly. _Interesting_ , Sonny notes, that he doesn't immediately name Rebecca as being there. "Can I ask what this is about?"

Sonny flicks a glance at Dodds, who nods. Alright, so Sonny's leading the show.

Sonny's got a pretty good idea by now of how he wants to do this, so he switches gears. "Well, actually," he starts, a bit bashfully. "It's a bit embarrassing, you see. Rebecca Tran ‒ you know Rebecca, right? She's Tasha's friend." He watches Russo fake surprise, and so he says, "See, she was at Mark and Tasha's the other night, and she _says_ ," Sonny pauses for added effect, to let Russo know exactly how big of a liar he thinks she is, "that you assaulted her."

" _What_?" Russo barks. Then he laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. "Is she saying I _raped_ her? Becca's a cage dancer. She likes to party, and‒ okay, she _may_ have given me a birthday present, if you know what I mean," He waggles his eyebrows, "but I didn't rape her."

Specified 'rape', as opposed to 'assaulted'. Called her by a familiar nickname and knows details about her work/personal life. Admitted sexual contact. Check, check, and check, thank you idiot meathead.

Dodds catches on quickly. "Well, I mean, you know how women can get," he starts with a laugh. "Morning after regrets ‒ they'd rather cry rape than do the walk of shame, 'know what I mean?"

"Yeah, right, of course," Russo agrees. "She was a hundred percent into it, and everything was fine when her roommate Jessie came to pick her up. If she's regretting it now, that's on her, not me."

_There we go. Dig that hole a little deeper._ "Exactly," Sonny agrees with a smirk. He makes a show of putting away his notepad and standing up, of throwing his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. "I think that about covers our end of things."

Dodds nods, gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. "You know how it is, man," he says with an eye roll. "We get a complaint, we gotta follow up."

"No, I totally get it," Russo says. "I'm sorry you guys had to come all the way down here for nothing."

"Hey, man, no worries," Sonny says; he pauses. "Oh, before we go ‒ I got one more question for 'ya."

"Yeah, sure man," Russo replies.

Sonny grins, lets all the faux-pleasantness ooze out of his expression, looks at him like he's an ant under Sonny's shoe. He pulls out his phone so he can read off the photo of the note Rebecca sent him. "Had a great time the other night. I want to return the favor. Now, was that your attempt at terrorizing the girl after you raped her, beat her up, and broke her arm, or are you just that stupid?"

* * *

He is that stupid, apparently.

"You're a fuckin' firecracker, you know that Carisi?" Dodds laughs on the drive back. In the backseat, cuffed and _possibly_ bleeding from his unfortunate meeting with the floor, Russo snarls.

"Hey, I didn't tell him to deck me in the face," Carisi says lightly. God, but his face _stings_. Ex-wrestler, his idiot brain reminds him. He turns cheerfully to Russo. "That's a C Violent Felony by the way," Sonny tells him. "Three and a half to five years in prison for assaulting a police officer."

" _Fuck you_ ," he spits.

Sonny shrugs. "You're not quite my type," he quips. "Sorry, pal."

Dodds sniggers from the driver's seat.

When they get the precinct, Dodds throws an ice pack at him. "I'll take care of bookin' him if you wanna head down to Barba's for trial prep," he offers, and Sonny checks his watch.

"Shit," he curses. He presses the pack hard to his tender face and hisses. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he groans, and starts digging around in his desk for the files he needs.

"You're the one who got yourself punched in the face," Dodds reminds him, and drags Russo off by the collar.

Amanda looks from Sonny, to Dodds' retreating back, to the blooming purple bruise crawling up Sonny's cheekbone. "I don't wanna know," she finally decides and throws her hands in the air.

Barba, apparently, does want to know.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asks incredulously when Sonny slides in just shy of half past one. "Also, you're late."

Sonny winces, then grins, then winces again. "Sorry about that, I ended up having to arrest someone."

"You _don't say_ ," Barba says with wide, blinking eyes.

"Oh, whatever," Sonny sasses back. "Remember the guy who attacked Rebecca Tran and put creepy flowers on her doorstep at one a.m.?" Sonny removes the ice pack from his face to show Barba the swollen purple mess that is his face.

Barba lets out a low whistle. "Jesus," he says, moving to rummage through one of the drawers in his desk. "What is he, a football player?" He pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen and throws it at Sonny.

"Ex-wrestler," Sonny admits, throwing his arm up to catch the bottle midair. He pops a few in his mouth and goes to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. "And they already snapped pictures of my face at the precinct."

Barba sneaks another look at Sonny's face and winces. "You sure that's not broken?" he asks warily, moving to open one of the many binders on the table.

"Nah," Sonny says. "He got a good swing in, but I'm pretty sure it's just a bruise."

Barba's gaze flicks up from his notes. "Uh huh. Get punched in the face often, Detective?" he dryly asks.

Sonny makes a face. "Hey, I wasn't _tryin'_ to get hit in the face. I just," Sonny shrugs, "you know, wanted him to take a swing at me."

The corner of Barba's mouth twitches. "So you goaded him into attacking you. So you could arrest him? To give that girl some piece of mind?" Barba muses. "How devious of you, Detective. And I didn't hear any of that, by the way."

"Hey, I didn't do anything illegal," Sonny says, crossing an x-shape over his chest. "He wasn't under duress, he was free to go at any time, I didn't threaten or use any kind of force. I just," Carisi shrugs, "you know, used his temper to my advantage."

Barba smirks again, but this one has more of a pleased edge to it, like he's almost impressed. "Well, mission accomplished, Carisi ‒ even if you did overestimate your dodging skills."

Sonny's such a damn sucker, but he can't help the warm fuzzies he gets every time Barba so much as breathes a word of praise in Sonny's general direction. His phone buzzes; it's Darren again, and between that and Barba's pseudo-compliment, Sonny can't help the small smile that curves at his lips.

"Am I interrupting, Detective?" Barba asks from behind his binder.

"What?" Sonny blinks, looks up from his phone. "Shoot, sorry, Counselor. Naw, I've been just tryin' to convince my‒ date," Sonny stutters momentarily, feels a flush crawl up his neck, "that it'd be better to go somewhere dark this week so no one has to look at this ugly mug a' mine," he finishes with a wry grin.

Barba raises one brow. He looks like he wants to drop the subject, but then (probably against his better judgement) says, "Just put some concealer and powder on it. It won't help with the swelling, but it'll help hide the bruising."

The warm fuzzies are back, and Sonny fights to keep his blush from spreading. "Thanks, Counselor," he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Against his cheek, the ice pack is beginning to melt, sending tiny streaking streams of cold condensation down the side of his neck. Sonny shivers, and he's not sure what the cause is.

"Far be it from me to stand in the way of _love_ ," Barba says with an exaggerated eye roll, and Sonny makes a face at him.

"I'm not sixteen, Counselor," Sonny dryly says.

Barba snorts, smirks."I have yet to see any evidence to the contrary, Detective. Now, come on, I have a meeting at three." He sits back in his chair, crosses his legs at the knee. "Detective Carisi: when did you first meet the defendant, Annabelle Stevens?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings this chapter, just canon-typical mentions of rape.
> 
> Sonny and Barba get to talk more this chapter.....finally...... 8') enjoy!!

The week is a train wreck.

Behind him, Rollins is roughly cuffing some punk who'd tried to take a swing at her, her knee pressed into the small of his back. Fin is taking three different witness statements at once while they cry at him in broken English with Officers Nguyen and Ramirez translating back and forth. Dodds is trying to keep a fight from breaking out between two kids' dads in a he-said-she-said, and Sonny...

Sonny isn't sure if it's a full moon or Mercury's in retrograde (or whatever kind of astrology thing it is that Connie's always talking about), or if everyone's just taking extra crazy pills, but Sonny has pulled doubles every night since Monday, and he'll be damned if he misses his date tonight because some _john_ couldn't keep it in his pants.

Sonny pinches the bridge of his nose, prays to six different saints. "You're tellin' me," Sonny wearily starts, "that you didn't know this girl was _fourteen_?"

"No way!" the guy blurts. He looks just as greasy as Sonny feels. "She told me she was nineteen! She came onto me!"

"Right," Sonny says dryly. "And was that before or after you paid the minor to have sex with you?"

"I didn't even finish!"

Sonny is going to strangle himself with his tie.

Eight o'clock rolls around with no end to the circus in sight, and Sonny is just fuckin' wrecked. His face hurts like hell, he hasn't eaten in twelve hours, and he can't remember the last time he slept more than an hour or two without being called for this, that, or the other some bullshit emergency.

Sonny pulls out his phone.

" _Hey, Sonny!_ " Darren says cheerily over the line. " _So, I got us reservations at this cute little place in the Village, and‒ okay, I know this sounds lame, but we took the kids on a field trip to a bowling alley the other week, and I actually had a lot of fun, so I thought we could get together and, you know, laugh at the gross rental shoes and make fun of how terrible we both are at bowling and‒_ " There's a pause as Darren realizes that the conversation is much more one-sided than he was anticipating. " _You're not, ah, on your way, are you?_ " Darren slowly asks, like he already knows the answer.

"I'm so sorry," Sonny says into his hand. "I picked up a few extra shifts so I could have the night off tonight, but it has just been crazy town here today, and I have no idea when I'll be able to get off."

" _‒Hey, it's no problem,_ " Darren says, and Sonny wants to punch himself in his own stupid face. " _I mean, we can always go out another night, right?_ "

Sonny sighs. "I'm _really_ sorry," he says again. "We could try and‒" Rollins is making faces and waving at him from her desk, and he groans. "Hold on one second, I'm sorry‒ What do you want, Rollins?"

"Cranky," Amanda teases. "Is that your date on the phone?"

"Yes, it is my date on the phone," Sonny says with a frown; and okay, he _is_ cranky, but he has a right to be pissy, so he's going to be pissy as much as he damn well wants. "What about it?"

" _Well_ ," Amanda starts with an eyeroll, "I _was_ going to offer to cover for you for a couple hours if you wanna try and make dinner, but if you don't _want_ to‒"

Sonny believes in a loving God. "No, I want to!" he blurts out; he brings the phone back up to his ear, suddenly jittery with the promise of dinner with Darren. "Okay, I know I'm super late, but give me like, fifteen minutes to shower and change, and I'll come pick you up‒"

A laugh rumbles over the line. " _Dinner after nine o'clock. You are a bad influence on me, Sonny,_ " Darren says mildly. " _I'll see you when you get here._ "

"Ugh, Rollins, I could kiss you," Sonny says once he's hung up, practically bouncing in his chair. He actually considers it for half a second.

"Save it for your date, Carisi," she throws over her shoulder with a smirk. "I'll give you a buzz when we need you to come back in, okay?"

Sonny gives in to the temptation, rolling his chair over to Amanda's desk so he can plop a sloppy kiss on her hair. "I owe you one, Rollins," Sonny promises, scooting back so he can grab his coat and messenger back.

"Nah, you took my Saturday, you've been workin' all week, I think we're good," Amanda says with a sweet smile. She crumples up a sheet of paper and tosses it at his head. "Go on your date so you can stop making goo goo eyes at your phone."

Sonny grins, hightails it in the direction of the locker rooms.

Sonny is going on a _date_.

* * *

Sonny showers, fixes his hair, puts on a clean button-up, _and_ even stops to pick up flowers at a bodega on the corner adjacent to Darren's apartment. He'd waffled for a few minutes before deciding _screw it_ , you bring people flowers on first dates, it's _polite_ ‒

"Flowers?" Darren says with a laugh when he opens the door. " _Really_ , Sonny? How gay do you think I am?" Sonny blushes like a fool, but Darren pulls out a vase from his cabinet, fluffs the multicolored daisies around a bit, and smiles across the island at Sonny. "They're beautiful, and you're a dork. At least I'm not wearing a poodle skirt, right?"

Sonny's blush deepens and he thinks desperately, _Say something suave, idiot._ "Gee willikers, I don't know, Darren, I _really_ wanted to go to the sock hop tonight‒"

Darren snorts out a laugh. "You're talking all high and mighty, but who's the one with the pompadour haircut here." He slips around the counter and splays his hand across Sonny's lower back. "Your face looks better than I imagined it would, considering."

Sonny, feeling suddenly self-conscious, raises one hand to his sore cheekbone. "Yeah, a co-worker told me what kind of makeup to put on it." He'd actually spent a fair amount of time trying to find the right shade to match his face. Who knew there were ten different shades of _ivory_?

"Now who's the gay one?" Darren laughs, and Sonny is starkly reminded of _you'll come out eventually_ , but before he has time to really dwell on that, Darren's hand slides up to loop around in the crook of Sonny's elbow. He bumps his shoulder to Sonny's. "Come on, the restaurant's only a couple blocks away. Do you mind walking?"

"No, I don't mind," Sonny says. He's overreacting again. It's a nice night out, and‒ okay, so it's later than most people are going to dinner, but he _apologized_.

The restaurant is a mom and pop Italian place that is actually not a mom and pop place at all - it's run by an older lesbian couple who greet Darren with beaming smiles and open arms. The shorter one, who goes by Mimi, immediately zeroes in on Sonny for being too skinny and her wife Nora has to pinch her to let Darren and Sonny eat in relative peace. The food is good, and homey, and very Italian. And the company's not bad, either.

Sonny's quite pleased, if he's honest; though he does have to wave the server away from filling his glass with wine once or twice.

"Sorry," he says apologetically when the server offers a second time, "I'm still technically on the clock."

"Well, I certainly appreciate you making time in your busy schedule to see me," Darren says, but he smiles teasingly, and Sonny can't help the tiny grin that pulls at his lips.

"I'm not keepin' you up too late, am I?" Sonny says, suddenly remembering the time. Normal people don't keep these hours. "Do you have to be up early?"

But Darren merely waves his hand. "No, no, I'll be fine," he assures him. But then his eyes flick up and he peers at Sonny through long, dark lashes. "You look like you're dead on your feet, though. I know I said I had bowling planned, but did you wanna just come back to my place and watch a movie?"

"What? No, we can totally go bowling," Sonny says. "I mean, I can't guarantee I'll be able to finish the game, but‒"

Darren laughs and reaches across the table to walk his fingers up Sonny's forearm. His hand is very warm against Sonny's skin. "No, I‒" Darren laughs again. "Do you want to come back to my place, and… watch a movie?" His leg brushes against Sonny's under the table, and Darren lightly strokes his fingertips down Sonny's arm to his hand.

Oh. _Oh._

They get dessert to go.

* * *

Sonny wakes to a dull buzzing on the bedside table, and the sound of water running in the background. His face scrunches, heavy with sleep, and he rubs a hand down his face, blindly reaching out. It's his phone, the glow from his screen bright in the dim, dim room, even with the faint beam of light crawling out from what Sonny can only assume is Darren's bathroom door.

Amanda's calling.

More importantly, it's _six in the morning_.

Sonny is suddenly very awake. He shoots up into a sitting position, and flicks the green phone to the right. "Rollins, I am so sorry, oh my God‒" he starts in a rush.

" _Carisi, Carisi, it's fine,_ " Rollins says. " _Liv said to let you have the night off ‒ when was the last time you went home and actually slept in your own bed?_ "

"I still haven't slept in my own bed," Sonny grumbles, but he's getting up, searching for his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. "What's up, Rollins?"

" _Carisi you dog,_ " Rollins says. " _We got a girl at Bellevue who's getting a rape kit done. You mind being my plus one?_ "

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Sonny says as he buttons his pants, not bothering with his belt. "Let me just run home and shower and change, and I'll meet you at the hospital, okay?" Darren's still in the shower it sounds like, but he doesn't want to just leave without saying goodbye‒

There's a notepad on the side table. Sonny scrawls a hasty note on it, stuffs his socks in his pocket and toes into his shoes. He finds his undershirt, but not the button-up, so whatever, he'll come back for it later. 

" _Sounds good, Carisi,_ " Rollins replies. " _I'll see you soon._ "

He gets the hospital about seven-thirty; Rollins is waiting for him by the front doors to ER. She's wearing a different shirt than she was last night, but that doesn't mean anything ‒ Sonny keeps at least two or three changes of clothes in his locker at all times, and Amaro had practically lived at the precinct when his kids weren't in the city.

"She's in Exam Two," the nurse says quietly when they flash their badges. "Her name's Kristi Cryer ‒ I got in at five to perform the exam, and the officer who accompanied her said she'd come straight from the club. Everything's already been tagged to go to the labs."

"Thanks, Jen," Amanda says with a tired smile; Jen flashes them an exhausted smile of her own and turns to pop her head in the door.

Amanda takes the lead this time. "Hi, I'm Detective Rollins," she starts slowly; she gestures to Sonny beside her. "This is Detective Carisi. Do you prefer Ms. Cryer, or‒ or Kristi?"

She barely looks old enough to be going to nightclubs, and the oversized hospital gown makes her look even younger. She clears her throat. "Kristi's fine," she replies, not looking at either one of them, and Sonny's heart twists in his ribs.

Rollins doesn't seem unaffected, either. "We understand that you were assaulted tonight, Kristi," she says then.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Sonny asks, equally as gently.

Kristi's face crumples, and then she says, "I was raped in a nightclub restroom." She looks like she's barely holding it together.

"I'm sorry," Rollins tells her. "Can you describe your attacker?"

"Um," she starts. "Short. Dark hair. I have his picture on my phone." She turns to grab her phone from the side cart, and‒ wait a second‒

"Wait," Sonny says suddenly, "I'm‒ I'm sorry, are you recording this?"

"I'm a vlogger," she says, and Sonny's brains just goes _what_. "My‒ my followers wanna know everything that happens to me." _What_ , Sonny's brain says again.

She brings her phone up then, pointing the camera directly at their faces. "Sorry, what did you say your names were?"

Sonny and Amanda both turn to look at each other.

This week is _crazy town_.

* * *

Time passes too slow and too fast all at once. By Sunday, Sonny's once again a tired wreck and, more importantly, he's sort of disgusted with himself, the lowlife sacks of crap that are Noel Panko and Bobby D'Amico, and the legal system in general. And, even with all the press of the D'Amico case, Sonny still has about a dozen other open cases (including Rebecca Tran's, whose rape kit has finally come back from the labs) with no end in sight.

Also, Darren is apparently mad at him.

"Hey Counselor, wait up," Sonny calls after him; Barba had a head start, but Sonny's legs are like a _gazelle's_ ‒ long and lean and meant for sprinting (plus, he'd run track in high school, so).

Surprisingly enough, Barba stops. "Detective," he says mildly. "Come to vilify me some more?" Then his eyes flick up to Sonny's face. "I see you took my advice."

"Thanks. It worked pretty well, actually," Sonny says, touching his face lightly. "But‒ no, c'mon Barba, we weren't trying to crucify you or nothin'. At least I wasn't," Sonny jokes with a grin.

Barba, very slowly, raises one eyebrow. He turns to leave, but doesn't object when Sonny follows him like a lost puppy.

"We're just frustrated is all," Sonny continues, a bit chagrined.

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Barba mutters; then he says, "I can't prosecute a case without enough evidence, Detective ‒ no matter what my personal feelings may be. You know that."

"I know, Counselor, believe me," Sonny replies. He knows better than most of the other detectives at the 16th.

"Rah, rah, Fordham Law," Barba says with an eyeroll, but his heart's not in it.

They finally make it to the front doors, and Sonny opens the door for Barba to let them both out into the cool night air. It's quiet this time of night (or, quiet for New York, at least), and Barba looks suddenly small in the wide open space, his tie and cuffs loosened, the frustrations of the day lining the corners of his eyes. Sonny thinks of the stack of cases back on his desk, the abusers, the rapists, the _victims_. Sonny's exhausted, but he'd take this bone-deep weariness any day of the week over working Homicide again, of seeing dead women's eyes staring up at him in his sleep, the people he couldn't save or help or comfort.

Barba's still standing on the sidewalk, looking at Carisi with a hesitant sort of curiosity.

"You wanna grab something to eat before you head out?" Sonny asks, scratching at a patch of stubble on his jaw. As much as he needs sleep, he needs food first. "I'm about to pass out if I don't get somethin' in me, and between you and me, I'm kinda sick of fast food and shitty takeout."

Barba's lip twitches in a half grin. "Yeah, alright. I know a place," he says, spinning on his heel. "Keep up, Detective."

Sonny follows.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more barba/carisi conversations this chapter!!!!
> 
> I also want you guys to know I finished writing chapter 8 this evening and it's so wonderful I can't wait till you guys read it and scream at meeeeee 8'))

Barba's quiet.

Not so much in his words or his tone, but in his affect, as well. He seems, well- 

Lost. Kinda lonely. 

"You alright, Counselor?" Sonny asks. He grabs some of the salad rolls with his chopsticks and sets them onto Barba's plate across from him, one by one. 

It's the Italian in him, equating food with comfort.

"I'm fine, Detective," Barba says, exasperated, but there's a hint of a smile on his face, and he does take one of the rolls. "Is there a reason you're assaulting me with Vietnamese food?"

Sonny shrugs. "Thought you might wanna try some," he simply says. It's true enough.

They eat in relative silence, until Barba sits back in his chair, runs a hand through his hair.

"Just going over how I'm going to be able to prosecute this case," Barba eventually says. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, lets out a weary, bone-deep sigh. "I would like it a lot better if she'd been honest with us from the beginning and not gone back to partying after the alleged assault."

Sonny shrugs, scoops a bit of rice into his mouth. He'd like the case a lot better if those things had happened, too, to be honest. "No one's sayin' this is gonna be easy," Sonny tells him when he's finished chewing; Barba's eyes flick to Sonny in annoyance. "Nobody's perfect, Barba," Sonny says then, frank, open.

The grit fades from Barba's face, and he sighs again, eyes softening as he stares out at nothing in particular. "You guys are terrible for my career," Barba muses aloud, a bit self-deprecatingly.

Sonny huffs out a quiet laugh, digging his fingers through his hair. "We really are, aren't we?" Sonny replies; at Sonny's admission, Barba's attention shoots sharply back to Sonny, and the eyes that had just been tired and fuzzy are suddenly alert, acute, and razor-sharp. Goosebumps raise the hairs on Sonny's arms, utterly unused to the undivided attention of Rafael Barba, and Sonny is keenly aware that his next words are going to make or break this conversation.

Sonny takes a long, slow breath. "I followed a bunch of your cases when you were in Brooklyn," Sonny admits, "and when you first transferred over to SVU here in Manhattan while I was still workin' Homicide." If Sonny thought Barba was quiet before, he's practically a statue now ‒ still and silent, but thrumming with some type of supernatural energy underneath his skin. Sonny says, "You busted a lot of balls, and you took on impossible cases, but they were still‒" Sonny hesitates. "‒smart ones."

Barba nods, very slowly.

"The kinds of cases you're prosecutin' here," Sonny continues, and he has to break eye contact with Barba for a moment, look around the nearly empty restaurant to gather his bearings. "Well, they're‒ not smart. They're impossible, and they're unequivocally for the victims. Which isn't to say that's not how it _should_ be, because what are we doin' all this for, if not _the victims_?" Sonny asks. He runs his hand through his hair again, settling it on the nape of his neck. He feels clumsy, and heavy-tongued, and he hopes he's making sense.

"The court of public opinion plays a lot more into this than we'd like to admit," Sonny says eventually, "but whether you're a john in the Bronx or a two-million-dollar a year talk show host, 'no' means 'no', right?"

"...Right," Barba says then, a bit stunned.

"And, I mean, I know a lot of this is probably the Lieutenant," Sonny plows on, suddenly brazen, "I mean, she's always rootin' for the victim, she's always advocating for the little ones, or the odd man out, and she just‒ she makes you want to be a better cop, a better lawyer‒" Olivia Benson _inspires_ Sonny, from her single motherhood to the unapologetic protective streak she carries towards coworkers and strangers alike, and he can get how that would soften the edges off of anybody. When Sonny first came to SVU, he wore shitty suits and had a bad haircut and was rough and loud‒

And Benson just took him by the hand and showed him how to take pride in the dirty work of sex crimes, that you can be _strong_ and still be _kind_ , still be a _good person_ ; that you could see the things you saw every day at work and still be able to be _happy_ ‒

"All I'm sayin'," Sonny eventually says, "is that we may be terrible for your career," Sonny finally drags his gaze back to Barba, quirks a small grin up at the older man, "but we're real good for your conscience."

Barba, across the table from him, looks at Sonny like he's seeing someone new.

* * *

Darren's still mad at him, nearly four days later.

" _Why am I not surprised,_ " Ken says, but it's fond, teasing. " _Spill, Carisi._ "

Sonny's lips twist. "I mean, I thought it went well," Sonny replies. "We went out to dinner, we had a nice time, I went back to his apartment‒" Ken whoops, makes an obnoxious catcall in his ear, "‒I mean, it _went well_." And yet, all their exchanges since their date have been short, curt. Sonny doesn't know what he did _wrong_.

" _Some people are just really sensitive to their lovers leaving in the middle of the night,_ " Ken laughs, like la-dee-fuckin'- _da_. " _And before you pitch a fit, I'm kidding you dummy. You brought him flowers, you had a great night, shit just happens sometimes._ " 

"I left a note," Sonny defends, miserably. "I had to go to work."

" _I know_ ," Ken says placatingly. " _Darren probably knows that, too. He's just being a high-maintenance little gay, okay? Some of us require more attention than others._ "

"I just don't know what to do," Sonny sighs, kicking at the leg of his coffee table. "I mean, I apologized for leaving, I explained the situation to him ‒ what else am I supposed to do?"

" _Dump his ass!_ " someone shrieks over the line, and _oh my God_ ‒

"Ken," Sonny says, very calmly. Too calmly. "Am I on speakerphone with you and Connie?"

" _Sonny, no I swear to_ god _,_ " Ken blurts. " _She's just sitting here next to me and she has freaky good hearing‒_ "

" _Listen, Sonny,_ " Connie suddenly interjects. " _Darren's a big boy, and so are you. If he can't get over you having real life responsibilities then you just need to cut him loose and find someone else ‒ he's hardly the only attractive single person in New York, okay? He was busy, you had to go, you left a note, if he can't get over that, that's on him, not you._ "

That… actually makes Sonny feel better. His doorbell buzzes, and Sonny stands up, walks over to the door. "Thanks, Connie," he says, and he means it. "Both of you, really. I'm just‒ ugh I'm bein' a drama queen, aren't I?"

" _Welcome to my life,_ " Connie moans dramatically and then squeals in laughter, presumably from Ken pinching her arm or yanking on her ponytail (they fight a lot, and those are his go-to retaliations).

It's Darren.

"Hey," Darren starts cautiously.

"I'm gonna have to call you back," Sonny tells Ken, and presses _end call_ in the middle of Ken's indignant squawk. "Darren," Sonny says then. "Hi."

"I know I'm being creepy and shitty," Darren starts immediately. "We've been on one date, we've only talked a handful of times, and‒ _augh_." He tugs on his curls and makes a frustrated noise. "I misinterpreted you leaving and thought you were just being one of those guys who wanted to like, dine and dash‒" Sonny snorts out a surprised laugh despite himself, and Darren gives him a wry grin.

"I was a dick," Darren says then. "I shouldn't have freezed you out like that. I'm really sorry. Do you think we could try again?" He stands there, in Sonny's doorway, looking down at Sonny with bright, hopeful eyes.

Sonny smiles, opens the door wide enough to let Darren through.

"You wanna watch a movie?" he asks.

This time, they do.

* * *

The D'Amico case goes down in flames.

Buchanan had pulled a greasier move than normal and _not let_ Panko or D'Amico testify. And to be honest, after that brutal cross the day before, he hadn't needed to. If he wasn't so morally outraged at the whole thing, Sonny might have been impressed at such a bold move, but as it stands, it completely obliterated the prosecution's case, and left Kristi and Barba standing in the aftershocks to pick up the pieces. And after the conversation he and Barba'd had the other day...

Sonny feels freakin' _awful_.

"Counselor!" Sonny calls out to the ADA's retreating back; he's not entirely sure why he bothered to seek Barba out, knowing he's bound to be in an awful mood after getting reamed by his bosses, but he's also not satisfied with the way their conversation played out earlier. _I took the bar. I think I did okay._ What was he _thinking_? "Counselor, wait up!"

Barba's not in the mood to play. "What do you want, Carisi?" he snaps, straight-backed and stiff-shouldered.

"I'm sorry," Sonny says. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but only once, so it's either Connie or Darren, who must have seen the news by now. Sonny ignores it. "I feel like I, I guilted you into fighting so hard for this case, and it bit you in the ass, and I just wanted to tell you that."

Barba's face is stone-cold. "I'm not a _child_ , Carisi," he spits. "I don't need to be babied. I'm fully capable of making adult decisions all by myself and facing the consequences of those actions."

"I'm not trying to baby you," Sonny says. "You know, I‒ I _know_ how bad it sucks when you mess up." He scuffs his shoe against the linoleum and shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly embarrassed. He sighs. "Look, I know I keep sticking my nose in your business and I've got no right to, but." Sonny shrugs; he has no idea where he's going with this, he just wants Barba to _feel better_. "After that video leak, everybody knows what kinda people Panko and D'Amico are ‒ even if you did lose."

Barba tips his head back and lets out a frustrated groan. "Come on," he snaps, moving to leave and flicking his hand in a _follow me_ gesture. "I need a drink."

They go to his office; Carmen and pretty much everybody else is gone for the day, and the hallway is dim, quiet. Barba goes over to the cabinet behind his desk and pulls out a tall glass bottle, two clear glasses. He sinks into his chair with a frustrated sigh.

"Your department is going to be under investigation after that stunt, you know," Barba starts conversationally. He pours himself a glass then tips the bottle towards Sonny. "Want one?"

It's funny, Sonny muses internally, that the last time couple of times he'd been drinking, he'd ended up‒

"Yeah, I'll take one, thanks," Sonny says, and his face feels warm. He checks his text from earlier. It was Darren, but nothing that necessitates an immediate response. "And anyway, the department's like a leaky faucet. Anybody coulda' leaked that video‒" Sonny has an idea or two, but he's not naming names, "‒but I'm not gonna say I'm sorry it happened."

Barba snorts, lifts the glass to his lips and takes a nice long swallow. "Tell me that again after your bosses have been screaming at you for three hours," Barba tells him humorlessly.

"We really are bad for your career, aren't we?" Sonny whispers, echoing his words from the other night.

"I'm a big boy, Carisi," Barba tells him again, leaning back in his chair. He loosens his tie with one hand, undoes his top button. "This may come as a shock to you, Detective," Barba says then, "but I am not the most likeable guy in the office."

Sonny huffs out a quiet laugh. "You? _No_."

"No, no, it's all true," Barba says airily, "I am _not_ the most likeable guy in the office." He takes another sip, props his feet up on the desk. "I've won a lot of big cases, but I've lost a few big ones, too; I'm not the most pleasant person to get along with; I don't make it a habit of socializing with my other district attorneys."

Sonny shakes his head, takes a long, slow sip of his drink. "So you're a sourpuss," Sonny starts with a shrug; Barba snorts almost violently into his drink. "You've had your moments. And you're a hard worker, too ‒ that's nothin' to be ashamed of."

"It is if I want to be a judge," Barba mutters around his next swallow, and moves to pour himself another drink.

Sonny blinks. This is the first he's ever heard of this. "You wanna be a judge, Barba?" he asks, almost awestruck. _Judge Barba_ , his mind tries out. Sonny could see that.

"Hmm?" Barba turns to look at Sonny, as if he'd forgotten the other man was there. "No‒ I don't know‒ I was just," Barba shrugs, "thinking aloud." He offers the bottle to Sonny again. "Want another?"

"Oh," Sonny says, and looks down at his empty glass. "Yeah, sure."

They drink for a bit, and slowly both of them become more comfortable, looser against the stresses of the day. Sonny hooks his leg over the arm of his chair, Barba unbuttons his vest and cuffs, and they just… relax.

"So," Barba says eventually, and there's a bit of a teasing edge to it. "How _do_ you think you did on the bar?"

Sonny groans, sinks lower into the chair. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm bad at the whole comforting other dudes thing," he laughs.

"Nah, you did alright," Barba says softly, a small grin quirking his lips. "At any rate, I won't be going home and abusing my cookware, so my kitchen thanks you."

Sonny perks at that. "You cook?" he asks.

"When I have the time," Barba says mildly.

"No kidding," Sonny says with a grin. "What do you like to make?"

"Cuban food mostly," Barba replies; his eyes flick up to Sonny. "And you?"

"I make a marinara that'll blow your mind," Sonny boasts, gesturing in the air with his free hand. "I cook for the squad all the time ‒ you should join us next time."

Barba raises one eyebrow and smirks. "Yeah, I'll think about it," he says, noncommittally, as is his style. "And I was actually being serious when I asked you about the bar, by the way."

Sonny's chest squeezes, flutters. "Oh," he says dumbly. "Well, I mean, I don't know. I felt confident. I'm _pretty sure_ I did well. I knew a lot of them exam questions. But you never really _know_ , you know?"

Barba's grin widens. "I knew I passed," he preens.

Sonny rolls his eyes. "Well of course _you_ knew you passed," he says, feeling some childish urge to blow a raspberry or give the counselor a very unprofessional noogie. "You went to Harvard."

"I _did_ ," Barba acquiesces with the same loose grin. "I got a full ride, too."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so smart, you're a regular genius," Sonny sasses. "Let me be proud of myself for puttin' myself through night school, alright?"

"You should be," Barba says quietly; Sonny looks up at Barba, who's still loose-limbed, but the smile is gone. He's all business. "It's not easy to be a full-time detective and get a law degree, Carisi. It's something to take pride in."

Sonny's heart is thundering in his chest.

The grin returns, and Barba tips his drink to him. "Even if it is a school like Fordham," he teases.

His phone buzzes once more, long forgotten in his coat pocket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end of the first arc of Kaleidoscope!! :D This chapter is a bit short, but chapter 8 is a bit of a doozy, and I didn't want to cut it up soooo one long chapter it is!! Expect chapter 8 to be posted up in the next couple days, and for now please enjoy chapter 7!! i just love this little fandom and i'm so glad you guys are liking the fic c: <3 thank you so much for being so kind <333

Sonny's hands are shaking.

_Come on, Carisi_ , he tells himself. _It's not that big of a deal. What are you, twelve? Just ask to hold his friggin' hand._ Sonny's got the morning off and Darren has a half an hour for lunch, so the two of them are at a little diner near his school blessedly free of both cops and pre-teens.

"So they bitch and they moan about the scales I make them do," Darren is saying around some weird pudding-thing he's ordered, "but _I_ don't want to listen to their horrible, off-tune, brassy squawks any more than they do, so why are they making me suffer?" He huffs out a laugh, then raises an eyebrow at Sonny. "You okay over there?"

"Hmm?" Sonny tunes back in, blinks at Darren. "No, yeah, I'm fine, sorry," he says with a grin; he shoves one of the triangles of his sandwich in his mouth, and Darren makes a face and laughs at him. "Hey, so I know we had plans tomorrow night, but do you mind if we push it back to like, Thursday? We got paperwork we gotta file before the end of the month and it's probably gonna end up goin' late."

"No worries," Darren says with a shrug; he eyes the french fries on Sonny's plate and Sonny quirks a tiny grin, pushing his plate to the center of the table. "Hey, how's that one detective? The one who went undercover at Bobby D's?"

"She's alright, I think," Sonny says with a shrug. Not that she would tell Sonny (or any of them) if she wasn't. Fin and Mike had been keeping an eye on her last he checked, and she _seemed_ to be doing okay ‒ she wasn't jumpy or coming in late and hungover, and she hadn't relapsed as far as she'd told anybody, but… at the very least she'd been sexually assaulted in that restroom, and that always had a way of coming back to bite a person in the ass.

"I hope that place gets shut down," Darren replies, munching angrily on a french fry. "What a sick pair of human beings."

"Welcome to my life," Sonny mutters. It did help his peace of mind that they were still getting slammed in the news, and his Netflix series was indefinitely on hold, but that they were still waltzing around in Manhattan instead of rotting in a jail cell? Yeah, it stung.

Darren's mouth twists. "Well, uh, how is work otherwise?" he asks.

"We hit a bit of a slow spot," Sonny says, popping a fry in his mouth. "Right now, we're just tryin' to catch up on paperwork and go over a bunch of old cases."

"That…" Darren scrunches his face, "sounds incredibly boring," he says with a laugh. "No exciting murders or anything then, I take it?"

Sonny freezes. "I work Special Victims," he starts slowly. "We only get murder cases if there's been evidence of sexual assault or child abuse. And no," Sonny continues with a small frown, "we haven't had any exciting murders."

"Okay, shit, chill," Darren laughs and pats Sonny's arm gently. "I was just kidding Sonny, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well it was a shitty joke," Sonny says quietly. He's not very hungry anymore. But Darren does seem penitent, and he leaves his hand on Sonny's arm for a moment, fingers running across the cuff of his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," Darren says again. "Any word on your test scores?"

It's an acceptable subject change. "No," Sonny says with a grimace. "I'm probably just gonna have to sit and stew for another month or so." Ken, Connie, and the others are, meanwhile, also slowly going insane with the wait, which they've taken to reminding Sonny every time they talk. It's equal parts endearing and infuriating.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Darren tells him. "I'm sure you did great, so all you have to do is sit back and wait for the good news."

Sonny lets a small smile slip past his lips. "Thanks, Darren," he says softly.

As the conversation continues, Darren takes his hand back so he can continue eating, and Sonny feels the loss acutely, his heart rate picking up once more. It shouldn't be a big deal, right? Asking to hold a guy's hand? They've been on a few dates. They've _slept together_. They haven't exactly had the 'so what are we' talk yet, but they don't need to be exclusive to do that, do they? Sonny isn't sure of the protocol, and as much as he likes Ken, there's _no way_ he's opening himself up to the razzing he'd get if he started asking the other man those sorts of questions. It's just‒

Sonny's scared to do it. He's scared to even ask.

This is something that's never happened to him before. He's never felt awkward about holding a girlfriend's hand (never even felt the need to ask); and yet, he can't seem to breach the twelve-something inches of space between them, to muster up the guts to lean over and press a kiss to the corner of Darren's mouth like he's been dying to since the other man sat down. 

He's being ridiculous. He _knows_ he's being ridiculous. And yet, Sonny's uncomfortably _aware_ of the public space they're in. And the fact that he's struggling with such a simple display of affection with someone he genuinely likes? In a space full of strangers he doesn't care about and will probably never see again? Well, it makes him want to go curl up on the couch with Bella and sleep for like a week.

"Hey," Darren suddenly says through the silence. Sonny looks up from the table. "You've got the look of a man with something on his mind."

Sonny's hands are shaking.

"Hello?" Darren laughs. "Earth to Sonny?"

"Are we moving too fast?" Sonny blurts, and, God‒ _frigging‒ That is not what he wanted to say._

Darren blinks, and his posture suddenly straightens. "Um," Darren says eloquently. "I don't know… are we?"

Sonny's hands are shaking and sweating, and he clasps them together under the table. "I'm bein' an idiot," Sonny says lowly, eyes glued to the table. "I don't know what's _wrong_ with me."

"Okay, dude, you're starting to freak me out a little bit," Darren says with a laugh.

"Can we just…" Sonny takes a deep breath, "sit here for a second?"

Their chairs are relatively close together and so Sonny, very slowly, lifts his hand from under the table and reaches to lace his fingers through Darren's.

Darren looks down at their hands, quirks a little grin. "That's it? That's what's got you so worked up?" He laughs, brings their hands to his lips so he can brush a little kiss to Sonny's knuckles.

Sonny lets out a shaky breath. "I really like you," Sonny admits thickly.

Darren smiles, all teeth. "I like you, too, Sonny."

Sonny kisses Darren when he has to leave, nerves be damned.

* * *

It's fairly quiet today.

Dodds is the only one in the bullpen when Sonny gets in, and he immediately zeroes in on Sonny with the look of a man desperate for human interaction. Amanda must be still out on door duty (she had texted Sonny her supreme boredom earlier), and Fin had put in for a couple days off, so Dodds has gotta be going stir crazy with his desk swimming in forms, files, and paperwork.

"You want some help with that?" Sonny offers as he sits in his chair, and Dodds' head snaps in a nod so fast it hurts Sonny just looking at him. His eyes are wide and pleading, and Sonny has to work to hold back a laugh.

" _Yes_ ," Mike says in a rush. " _Yes I would love some help._ "

This time Sonny does laugh, and he rolls his chair over to Dodds' desk, snatching up a free pen. Good God, but there is a lot of paperwork here. "Is this all administrative crap?" Sonny asks hesitantly.

"This," Dodds gestures to the smallest stack, "is the administrative crap. This," and Dodds points to two larger stacks beside it, "is the list of cases that Carl Rudnick worked on that still have to be investigated."

_Yikes_. Sonny doesn't envy Dodds' position.

The lieutenant pops her head out of the office when she hears them shuffling around, and Dodds flinches like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hey Carisi ‒ glad you're here," Liv says with a grin. "I know you just got in, but do you mind taking a trip down to Bellevue with me?" Sonny perks immediately, whereas Dodds lets out a low groan. "Come on, Dodds, I need you to file those forms by end of day."

"Can't I just say I filled them out?" Mike weakly jokes, but turns back to his desk with a sigh. "Fine, fine, have fun in the real world without me."

"Sorry," Sonny whispers to him as he follows Liv out, but there's a definite pep in his step as he puts his coat back on.

"Jen, the SANE nurse at Bellevue, has some sensitive information that she thought we might be interested in," Olivia says cryptically once they're in the car. "I told her we could run down and meet her at the hospital, but lowkey."

"I can do lowkey," Sonny immediately chimes in, and Liv bites back a grin.

"I know you can do lowkey, Carisi," Liv tells him, "I'm just filling you in."

"Oh." Sonny turns to look out the window to hide his smile. "Thanks, Lieutenant." They drive in easy silence for a few minutes, and Sonny watches the passing architecture with a vague interest, his chin propped on his hand. Eventually, Sonny turns back to Liv and asks, "So what do you think this sensitive information is?"

Liv shrugs. "I don't know, but it must be big if she's doing the whole cloak and dagger routine." She keeps her eyes on the road, but then she casually asks, "Are you doing alright, Carisi?"

Sonny blinks, furrows his eyebrows. Does he look sick or tired? "Yeah, Lieu, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" 

"I can't put my finger on it," she says then, almost to herself, tapping her fingers on the wheel. "You just seem a little preoccupied lately," Liv finally settles on and Jesus, has Sonny really been that obvious? He thought he'd been pretty cool about his whole _hey, I'm actually into dudes_ thing, but if _his boss_ has noticed, then who else has? She flicks a quick look at Sonny out of the corner of her eye. "You are doing okay, though, right Carisi?"

"Did you know that Angelina Jolie is bisexual?" Sonny blurts out, and _holy shit Dominick Michael Carisi, Jr. that is one of the worst things you could ever possibly say_. "So is Alan Cumming ‒ he lives here in Manhattan ‒ did you know he was bisexual?" he babbles on, and Sonny's soul has departed his body, there is no way he can possibly top this, this is number one on his list of Most Embarrassing Moments in his life, _Sonny Carisi is gone, please leave a message at the tone‒_

"A lot of people are bisexual, Carisi," Olivia says with a smile, and then it clicks and she whips her head around to give Sonny a look, and she asks, "Carisi, are you‒?"

"Lieu, the weather is great today," Sonny says with a semi-hysterical laugh, gesturing to the outside world. "When was the last time you saw a sky so _blue_?"

"Carisi…" Liv turns back to the road and twists her lips. "There's nothing wrong with being bisexual," she says quietly; Sonny's heart thunders in his chest and his face feels tight, brittle, paper thin. "And you know that if anyone on the force gives you grief for that, you can come to me right?" When Sonny doesn't answer, she chances another quick glance at him. "Nobody's harassed you, right? Not Dodds, or Rollins, or any of the other officers‒?"

" _No_ ," Sonny tells her. "No, Lieu, nobody's harassin' me, I swear. Nobody‒ nobody at work knows," he finishes in a whisper, fisting his hands in his lap. He feels sick, and dizzy, and he's got no right to, this isn't a big deal; it's not like he came out to his boss as gay, or transgender, he's just _bisexual_ ‒

"You know that I'm bisexual, don't you Carisi?" Liv says then, and Sonny looks at her with wide eyes. She smiles softly. "I mean, I don't exactly keep it a secret. Fin knows, and Nick and all my old partners knew, and‒" She flicks the turn signal on so she can pull into the hospital parking lot. "You get that if anyone we work with discriminates against you, or harasses you, that I wouldn't let that stand... right?"

Sonny's chest lightens and he takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. He nods jerkily, but can't quite make himself look her in the eye. "I'm bisexual," he eventually says, and it's like a part of him he never even knew was missing just slotted into place - like a weight he's been carrying for years slipped off his chest and he's breathing clearly for the first time in as long as he can remember.

Sonny feels whole. _Complete._

Liv turns the car off, then twists around in her seat so she can press a warm hand to Sonny's shoulder. "Thank you for telling me, Carisi," she says quietly; then she tilts her head and laughs lightly. "Well, sort of."

Sonny laughs, and then he laughs some more, and if it takes a few minutes for him to compose himself, Liv certainly doesn't call him on it.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sex parties," Olivia says, almost dumbfounded. Listening to the SANE nurse recount everything she knows to the two of them, Sonny can certainly understand it. "And they're all underage?" she asks Jen, a small frown twisting her lips.

"All the ones that I've seen," Jen says with a sigh. She collapses heavily into a chair and lowers her head into her hands. "There's two girls who have come in independently on three separate occasions, and other girls who I'm almost certain roll with the same group have come in the past few weekends in a row. They'll come in for first aid, for internal tears or bleeding, or STD screenings, but none of them ever consent to a rape kit, or to letting any of us call the police. And they all swear they're legal adults, but I'd bet my life savings none of them are older than sixteen."

"That's…" Olivia purses her lips.

"Horrifying," Sonny finishes for her.

"This can't lead back to me," Jen says wearily. "I could lose my job, and there's no way any of those girls will ever come back here if they knew I called the police."

"I promise," Olivia says, leaning forward to rest a hand of Jen's shoulder. "No one will ever know you told us anything."

Jen sighs. "Thank you," she replies. "Do you guys mind leaving first? I kind of just want to sit here for awhile."

"Of course," Liv says generously. "Thank you again for this, Jen ‒ we really appreciate it."

Jen flashes them one more quick, tired smile as they head out, and it isn't until they're safely back in the car that they let themselves sink into the seat cushions, let the knowledge of _underage friggin' sex trafficking_ weigh heavily upon them.

"Does this ever get easier?" Sonny eventually asks.

Liv sighs. "I think if it does," she starts quietly as she pulls the car out of park, "then you shouldn't be working with Special Victims."

Sonny nods. "I can go in undercover," he volunteers. "Scope the place out, see what we can find."

Olivia quirks a grin. "Easy there, Carisi," she says. "Let's do some old fashioned investigating first. We've got to figure out when and where these sex parties are happening, how exclusive they are, what hoops you have to jump through to get an invite." Liv rolls her eyes, but her face is fond. She looks left, then right, then pulls out into traffic. "We'll start with your contact at the Lounge."

The Lounge is one of those pretentious, high-end cocktail lounges where people sit and snootily sip at their beverages and leave with a tab of three grand at the end of the night ‒ but the reason Sonny goes there is because there's a certain bartender who's gotten him… exclusive invitations in the past, when he's paid well enough.

It's also worth mentioning he's a sleazy son of a bitch.

"Dom!" the man greets when he sees Sonny, all smiles. "Haven't seen you in awhile around these parts. Heard you got uh," he laughs, "busted at one of your parties."

"Patrick," Sonny returns with a slick smile and a firm handshake. " _Those_ charges were dropped because nothing illegal was going on at the party. Though, the uh‒" Sonny grins, a bit abashedly. "The missus has been keeping me on a bit of a shorter leash than normal."

It's mid-afternoon, so the bar's pretty quiet (which is how he and Patrick prefer it), so Patrick takes his time as he polishes the glass in his hand, lifting it to the light to inspect it every so often.

"Then she's going out of town soon, I take it?" Patrick asks casually. "Got any fun plans?"

"This weekend," Sonny offers. "She's got business in Peru for a couple of weeks. I was thinking of cutting loose a bit, actually." Sonny reaches into his breast pocket, slides a thin, folded piece of paper across the black countertop. Patrick's eyes light up at the sight of it. "Have you heard of any… get-togethers happening soon that I'd be interested in?"

Dominic Jackson is a real estate lawyer at his daddy's firm who's married to an older, wealthy surgeon who enjoys volunteering in foreign countries, and has a penchant for slim blonde teenage girls when his dull, boring wife isn't around. Privately, it always makes Sonny squirm talking to the shark of a bartender, but he has yet to fail to come through for Sonny when he needs to get into a certain event, so talk to the shark he does.

"I may know of a few," Patrick says congenially, eyes skimming the account and routing number on the slip. "Same terms as usual?"

"Same terms," Sonny confirms. "It's been way too long since I've had a night out, so I'm really looking for a good time."

"Oh, I bet you are," Patrick grins. "I'll text you the details of what I know is going down. You still got the same number? Any special requests?"

"Same number," Sonny says easily; he stops to ponder for a moment, tapping one finger to his lips. "Special requests? Something… dangerous," he finishes with a smirk.

Patrick laughs openly, claps Sonny on the shoulder. "That's what I like about you, Dom ‒ you're an all or nothing kinda guy." He flicks the paper up between two fingers, twiddles it back and forth. "Expect the list by Wednesday so you can, ah," Patrick waggles his eyebrows, "have enough time to properly decide."

Sonny smiles slowly, lets it ooze with sleazy satisfaction. "I knew I could count on you, Patrick."

Sonny sanitizes his hands thoroughly when he gets back to the car.

* * *

"Alright, so this is what we know," Liv starts, gesturing to the white board plastered with hastily scribbled notes, a google map printout, and a photo of a middle-aged madam with long red hair. "There are underage girls being trafficked, assaulted, and raped at these parties. Now, we know that the next one is supposed to be this Saturday night, in a loft in Tribeca here." She points to one of the printouts, where a big red star marks the location. "We've got undercovers canvassing the neighborhood, and they're going to be putting in cameras early Saturday. Carisi got the invite, got past the initial vetting ‒ we're just waiting on the final okay from Patrick Connelly at the Lounge."

"Any idea what kind of high rollers are gonna be there?" Amanda asks, tapping her pen to her cheek.

"No idea," Sonny admits, "but they gotta be rich and/or scary, judging by what the nurse told us."

"There's no cover to get in?" Dodds pipes up. "That's odd."

Sonny shrugs. "Sometimes people like to throw their money around?" he guesses.

"High-end sex parties with underage girls?" Barba quips from out of nowhere; he's got a handful of boxes in his arms, which Dodds moves to take from him. "Don't you guys ever sleep?"

"I could ask the same of you," Olivia quips. "So who's the lucky detective tonight?"

"Give me Carisi," Barba says. "He's going to need the most prep."

His words are mostly innocuous, but after his conversation with Olivia earlier in the week, Sonny and his Goddamn hyper suggestible psyche are working in overdrive. Amanda sniggers under her breath and Sonny flushes all the way down to his damn chest. Liv looks from Sonny, to Barba, and back to Sonny again, and she hides her smirk behind a polite cough.

"He's all yours, Counselor," she tells him, and Sonny regrets every single conversation he's ever had in his _life_ that's brought him to this moment. "Just give him back to us in one piece."

Sonny's ears turn an alarming shade of purple, and Liv whips around to leave, but he can still see her shoulders shaking before she disappears into her office and Sonny hates his life.

"Oh, relax, Carisi, we're just teasing you," Amanda says with a grin.

Sonny chooses not to deign her with a response, merely turns on his heel and follows Barba to the pseudo-office they've set him up in.

"Okay," Barba says, setting down three thick binders in front of him. "How's Rebecca Tran holding up?"

"Pretty well, all things considered," Sonny answers. Russo was out on bail, but they'd granted Rebecca a restraining order against him; and while Jessie and Tasha were on Rebecca's side, Mark was taking Frank's side and trying to put Tasha in the middle of it. She'd been shaky when Sonny had talked to her earlier, but Rebecca was a strong kid. Trial was only a few days away, and she had a support system. Sonny had faith.

"Good," Barba says with a nod. "Now walk me through how your investigation led you to the defendant, Carl Randall."

They go over Sonny's testimony for each of the case binders on the desk in front of him, line by line, until the words are etched into Sonny's eyelids. They work through possible questions the defense might ask, loopholes they might try to exploit, arguments they may use. Sonny likes doing this type of work with Barba ‒ likes getting a glimpse into how his mind works as a lawyer, the multi-faceted aspects of the case. He's definitely aced a paper or two using the types of arguments Barba's brought up in these sessions.

"That's probably good for today," Barba eventually says, sitting back with a sigh, rolling his neck in a slow circle.

Sonny blinks, checks his watch. "Already?" It's barely eight.

Barba raises an eyebrow. "You want to spend your whole evening here?" he dryly asks. "Liv said you've been clocking a lot of overtime lately. Go home, get some sleep."

Sonny grins, crosses his arms over his chest. "Worryin' about my well-being, Counselor?"

Barba shoots him a look, but Sonny would bet real money it was (mostly) just for show. "Hardly," he says. "You'll look better to a jury without those bags under your eyes. Go on," he says then, making a shooing motion. "Get out of here, Detective."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sonny says with a jaunty salute, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. Outside in the bullpen, he sees Liv hovering over Dodds, a pen cap between her teeth, and he calls out, "Hey Lieutenant! You need anything from me before I head out?"

Liv looks up, swivelling the cap around in her molars before clicking her pen back into it. "We're all good here, Carisi," she replies. "I'm just about to head out myself." Dodds lifts his eyes to the ceiling in silent thanks, and even Amanda looks relieved.

It gives Sonny an idea. "Hey, you guys want me to make dinner?" he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. It's been a long day, and Sonny could use something homemade.

" _Yes_ ," Amanda declares before anyone else, jabbing her finger at Sonny. "I'll get my coat."

Liv laughs, cracking a wide grin, and she nods her head. "I can't promise I'll stay too long, but food sounds good. Meet you there in an hour?" She turns to look back at Dodds. "Dodds?"

"‒Yeah," Dodds says after a brief pause. "Okay, yeah, dinner sounds good."

Sonny beams. "I'll text you the address," he says. He turns back to Barba, who's been silently annoyed in the corner during the whole exchange. "What do ya say, Counselor?" he asks.

Barba looks wholly unimpressed, but then he hums and says, almost casually, "You did talk up your marinara."

" _Blow your mind_ ," Sonny swears, making an O with his thumb and forefinger. "You wanna meet at my place or just carpool? I just gotta run to the store for a few things."

"I'll meet you there," Barba says, shuffling through a few papers. "I have to finish up a few things here, so just text me your address, and I'll head over when I'm done. Should I bring anything?"

"Zeppole," Sonny jokes immediately, and Barba raises a brow. "Nah, don't worry about it ‒ all the good bakeries are closed right now anyway. Rollins'll bring wine or beer, so we should be good." He taps out his address to Barba on his phone and hits _send_ , causing Barba's phone to buzz twice on the desk. Sonny smiles, tips his phone against his head, and says cheerily, "See you soon, Counselor."

" _Can't wait_ ," Barba drawls, but Sonny just rolls his eyes and shuts the door on him.

* * *

Most of the ingredients Sonny needs are already in his pantry at home, but there's something about using fresh tomatoes and garlic that reminds him of long summer days, running around the kitchen with his mom, listening to her prattle on about how _fresh produce is always better, Sonny, you can't make a good marinara without whole tomatoes_. Good little Italian boys listened to their mothers about these sorts of things.

Also, he _had_ really talked up his cooking skills, so. Fresh it was.

Amanda arrives first with a couple of six packs, immediately moving to lean on the bar so she can shit talk him while he poaches tomatoes. Dodds and Liv show up within minutes of each other, and it's obvious Dodds doesn't do this sort of thing often because he mostly just waffles between Sonny's kitchen and living room, unsure if he should help or just let Sonny do his thing.

"Here," Sonny says eventually, handing him a block of cheese and a grater. "Wanna slice up some cheese for me?"

"Yeah, sure," Mike replies.

Sonny lets him work for a few minutes, then casually asks, "You don't do a lot of home cookin', I take it?"

Dodds gives a wry grin. "We did a bit when I was a kid. Most cops I know just try and survive off'a takeout," he says; Dodds shrugs a bit. "Not a lot of opportunities to hang out and cook, I guess."

"Not everyone wants to be all buddy-buddy with the deputy chief's kid?" Sonny guesses, and Dodds winces a bit. It's probably a sore spot, Sonny surmises.

"Either they want to be my best friend, or they think my dad just pulled strings to get me where I am," Mike eventually says, almost sourly; he starts grating the cheese a bit more aggressively. "I worked hard to make Sergeant."

"I believe you," Sonny replies. Knowing what he knows about Mike Dodds, Sonny has no doubt he worked his ass off to get where he is. He also has a feeling that, despite working his ass off, his father pulled some strings for him anyway. It's gotta smart. "That's probably good," Sonny says, motioning to the pile of parmesan before them. "Why don't you make Rollins go do some actual work and tell her to set the table?"

"I heard that!" Amanda calls from the living room, laughing loudly. "I helped!"

Sonny rolls his eyes, grabs a couple boxes of pasta from the pantry. "You critiquin' my cooking technique doesn't exactly count as helping, Rollins."

"You cut garlic weird!" Amanda laughs.

"Have you even touched a clove of garlic in your life?" Sonny sasses back. The doorbell buzzes, and Sonny calls, "Lieu, would you mind gettin' that?"

Liv stands and pads over to his front door; there's a brief pause, and then a delighted, "Oh! Barba!"

Sonny's lungs seize in his chest.

Barba enters the kitchen with a grinning Olivia, a paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of his elbow. "Do you have a double boiler?" he asks, setting the bag down on the counter and moving to pull out a variety of things: eggs, milk, brown sugar.

Sonny blinks. "I‒ ah, usually just use this‒" He bends down to grab a pot and a sturdy glass bowl that fits just right on it.

Barba is in his kitchen. Barba is in _his kitchen_.

"That'll work," Barba says, and moves to open Sonny's cabinets like he's been there a million times before. He finds Sonny's mixing bowls and pulls a couple out. "Do you have a mixer?"

"Yeah, I got a hand mixer," Sonny says, a bit dazed. He knows he invited the man, but it still feels _so surreal_. He digs out the mixer and hands it over to Barba. Sonny's stomach does a weird flip and he turns back to his pasta, digs a noodle out with a fork. Another minute, he decides.

"It's not zeppole," Barba says then, "but I wasn't about to lug a deep fryer all the way down here."

"I was _kidding_ ," Sonny says, but he's also having a hard time breathing, so it comes out as more of a whisper than anything. Amanda and Dodds have poked their heads over the bar counter, curiosity bright and plain on their faces. Nosy jerks.

"Weren't you supposed to be setting the table, Rollins?" Liv says, cracking a grin, and Amanda sighs longsufferingly, but grabs the dishes from the bar and disappears. Without Amanda there to gawk with him, Dodds too quickly lowers his head, to help Amanda presumably.

"You guys want any help?" Liv offers, but Barba waves her off.

"This'll only take like twenty minutes," Barba says. "Go relax."

Liv smiles and turns back into the living room.

"What are you makin'?" Sonny asks in the suddenly very quiet kitchen; he takes the pot of pasta off the burner and grabs a strainer.

" _Natilla_ ," comes the quiet reply. Barba starts up the mixer. "It's just something simple. Are you a fan of custards?"

"Yeah," Sonny says. A bit of the boiling water splashes onto his wrist and he hisses through his teeth. He grabs a towel, sets the colander on on it, and shakes his hand out a bit.

Barba's taken over his two free burners, one at a simmer, the other with the double boiler. He spoons a bright yellow mixture into the glass bowl, scrapes the sides clean. "You can go ahead and bring everything out," Barba tells him. "This won't take long at all."

Sonny feels like he's missed a key element of this conversation. "Do you need any help, or...?"

Barba looks at the marinara simmering on the stove, the pasta, and turns back to Sonny, raises an eyebrow. "I think I can manage," he says dryly. "It's mainly stirring and chilling."

He has to reach around Barba to grab the serving bowls he needs. "Sorry," he says when his shoulder bumps against Barba's.

"You're fine," Barba replies.

Sonny feels like he just chugged an espresso, jittery from his fingers down to his toes; he takes the bowls and sets to scooping pasta out, spooning the sauce on top. He grabs a small bowl to pour a little more marinara in, and then reaches around Barba one more time to turn the oven from _warm_ to _off_.

"Sorry, I gotta get around you again," Sonny murmurs, his fingertips lightly grazing Barba's shoulder; Barba steps wordlessly to the side so Sonny can open the oven and pull out a couple of baguettes.

When Sonny comes back into the kitchen, Barba's taken to rooting around in his cupboard again, a stack of small bowls in his hands. "Mind if I use these?" Barba cheekily asks, even though he's already spooning something that smells _amazing_ in them.

"Mi cocino es su cocino," Sonny quips with a grin, laughing when Barba grimaces at his horrible accent. "Come on, Barba," Sonny says once Barba's set them all in the fridge. "Let's eat."

"I expect to be wowed," Barba warns, but there's a hint of a smile quirking his lips, and he follows Sonny to the table.

It's quicker than a traditional marinara, all things considered, but it tastes good, and even Dodds looks surprised when he takes his first bite.

"Not bad, man," Dodds says approvingly between mouthfuls.

"You doubted me?" Sonny haughtily replies, and Amanda snorts and rolls her eyes at him.

"Don't get cocky, Carisi," Amanda says with a grin; her eyes flick over to Barba, thoughtfully, and then: "I wasn't expecting to see you here, Barba."

"I was invited," Barba snootily says and Carisi can practically see him sticking his nose up in the air.

"Well, we're glad you finally decided to come," Liv replies, smiling around her beer bottle, and Sonny's brain stutters to a stop. Had the Lieutenant invited Barba to one of his dinners before? Had he come tonight because Sonny _personally_ invited him? Had Barba previously declined because Sonny hadn't invited him, or had the other man just been busy?

"I admit, I was curious to see if his cooking skills were as palatable as you said," Barba mildly says to Liv, and he's _insulting_ Sonny, but his insides are still doing somersaults in his chest and making him want to do something embarrassing like hide his face in hands and giggle like a teenage girl.

Sonny grins as casually as he can manage, props his chin on his fist. "So, you're saying my cooking skills are awesome?" he says. He's clearly fishing, but still. He wants to hear Barba _say it_.

"They're adequate," Barba replies, but his eyes are glittering when they meet Sonny's across the table, and he eats everything on his plate - even goes for a second helping.

Afterwards, Amanda finishes her natilla faster than Sonny thought possible for someone her size, and even manages to pilfer a bite or two from Dodds' bowl when he isn't looking. She practically waxes poetic about the eggy dessert, demanding he make it again in the near future, and Barba smiles softly around his spoon but also tells her not to push her luck. Liv leaves shortly after, taking her bowl of pudding to go, and when Amanda has to relieve her sitter, Dodds walks her out, leaving Sonny and Barba alone in his apartment.

Sonny looks at Barba, with his tie loose his sleeves rolled up, and the air is suddenly _very_ different than it was when the others were there.

"I'll help with the dishes," Barba says in the silence, and turns on his heel towards the kitchen.

_Wh‒_ "Wh‒ no, it's fine, Barba, don't worry about it," Sonny says, hurrying after him. His mother would be horrified to see a guest doing dishes in his home.

Barba shoots Sonny a look. "I'm just going to clean the ones I used," he says, already elbow deep in suds. "You think I'm going to dirty up half your kitchen and just leave you to wash everything?" Barba is washing dishes in his sink and Sonny is just standing in his kitchen staring at Barba like he's not sure if he should laugh or cry, so Barba rolls his eyes and says, "Fine, you can dry."

Sonny finally finds his tongue. "In my own kitchen? How kind of you," he drawls, but grabs a hand towel and gets to work.

The atmosphere is quiet, but easy, and despite saying that he was only going to wash half the dishes, it's quickly becoming apparent that Barba's doing all of them. Sonny finds the question _why did you come?_ on the tip of his tongue, but he remembers Barba working late on Friday nights, and thinking across a plate of Vietnamese food _Barba looks lonely_. He remembers _I'm not the most likeable guy in the office_ , and looking at Barba across restaurant tables, office desks, and crowded courtrooms, and Sonny thinks, _We're friends, aren't we?_ The two of them have become friends, hilariously enough, despite Barba's cranky disposition and Sonny's initial awkward crush, despite their incessant squabbling and Sonny's blinding optimism and Barba's unrelenting realism, and they've settled into something warm and cathartic and _genuine_.

"I'm glad that you came, Barba," Sonny says quietly.

He worries for a second that Barba's going to make fun of him, or worse, _ignore him_ , but eventually Barba replies, very softly, "I'm glad I came, too."

Sonny feels heady and fuzzy, like the way good scotch feels slipping through your chest, or seeing his niece curled up on Bella's chest with her thumb in her mouth, or saying the words _I'm bisexual_ out loud for the first time in his life and hearing _Thank you for telling me_. Then Barba says, "You never had any pudding," and _oh God_ Sonny is an _idiot‒_

"Jeez! I'm sorry!" Sonny blurts, spinning on his heel and poking his head in the fridge. There's still a couple bowls of natilla left, so Sonny grabs one, digs a spoon out of his cutlery drawer. "Sorry," he says again with a wry grin. "I guess I got caught up in doing the host thing."

"It's fine," Barba says lightly, but he's very intently scrubbing the pot that held Sonny's marinara sauce, and‒

Sonny feels warm, feels it flushing his face and his chest at the thought that Barba _made him_ something, made _Sonny_ something specifically‒

Sonny takes a bite. It tastes like home, and comfort, like something a grandmother would make over family dinners. It's sweet and rich and has a liberal dusting of cinnamon on top and just a hint of lemon and it's absolutely‒

"Perfect," Sonny says.

Rafael smiles.

* * *

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

**end part i**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH!! part 1 is finally done!! :')) I have 3 parts total (so 2 more after this) planned out, so this fic is probably going to end up being a doozy of a thing hahaha. Everyone has just been really sweet and kind and supportive and I just wanted to thank you guys again for being so great during my first foray into this little fandom ♥♥♥♥♥
> 
> Now, I am going out of town next week, but I'll be bringing notebooks and my tablet for writing purposes, so if I disappear until like, Friday, don't worry! ;) I'm just on the beach typing out my bisexual-as-hell fanfiction huhuhu >8V
> 
> ANYWAY I'M BAD AT BEING SERIOUS/HEARTFELT SO THANKS AGAIN BYE


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!! I am so so so so sorry it took so long to get the next chapter posted :( It was a little hard to write tbh, for a few reasons, actually. Real life has been kind of kicking my ass, so I've been in a stress funk, and while Sonny is like, very devotedly Catholic, I am very _not_ , and I'm not going to bore you all with the reasons why lmao, but it's just... hard, writing religious stuff for me.
> 
> BUT ANYWAY. There's a few warnings this chapter: there's attempted sexual assault in the latter half of the chapter, as well as a homophobic slur, so if you want to skip that part, scroll down when you see "Ken, you idiot", until you see "Detective?", and you'll bypass it.
> 
> I'm going to try and get back into the rhythm of regular posting again!! I really am sorry this took so long!!! ;-; <3

Sonny's exhausted.

" _Come on_ ," Ken wheedles in his ear. " _We haven't hung out in like, two weeks. Connie's convinced you're dead and I'm just texting myself everyday._ "

"Connie does not think I'm dead," Sonny says, but a grin is tugging at his lips and he snorts, shaking his head. He wants to ‒ he honestly does. But he feels like he hasn't slept in a week. There's still piles of evidence to be processed, tagged, notated for Barba's grand jury hearings. And they make Sonny's stomach roll just thinking about them.

If he's honest with himself, though, he has missed hanging out with Ken and Connie; they're like little rays of light in his dark, dark days. The two of them have a way of reminding Sonny that there are good, honest people still out in the world ‒ people who want to make a difference, who still want to help the little guys, the less fortunate. It makes him feel like his oath to serve and protect _means something_.

Sonny supposes he can sacrifice an evening of sleep for some good conscience.

There's a quiet silence stretching over the line, and Sonny realizes that Ken is patiently waiting for Sonny to finish sifting through the shit in his head. "It's‒ it's just been a rough case," Sonny quietly admits. "I was planning on catching an evening service after work."

" _Then come out after!_ " Ken says immediately, which is exactly what Sonny had been hoping he'd say. He's about to agree when Ken plows forward and follows with, " _Bring Darren, too! It'll be like a double date, except‒ you know, Connie and I aren't dating. Cuz we're both gay and she's got a sugar mama and I don't date._ "

Oh. _Well._

"That's gonna be a bit of a problem," Sonny says with a sigh. "We aren't, ah, seeing each other anymore."

" _What?_ " Ken squawks. " _Why?_ "

"Apparently the reality of dating a cop isn't as rosy as it's made out to be," Sonny mutters. There'd been words, between the two of them. A _lot_ of words.

" _Come on, it can't have been that bad,_ " Ken tries. " _Everybody gets into arguments once the honeymoon phase is over._ "

Sonny sighs, chews at his lower lip. "Our last conversation consisted of him telling me he had better things to do than, and I quote, ' _screw around with some half-gay closet case who'd rather go to church than see his supposed boyfriend_ '," he confesses, the words burning all the way down. And isn't that just the friggin' kicker? How Darren had managed to pick out and attack the most delicate of Sonny's insecurities, even the ones Sonny never even thought to mention?

He leaves out the part where Darren had immediately called him back, left multiple messages, multiple apologies ( _Sonny I can't believe I said that ‒ I'm so sorry ‒ I was just frustrated and I got angry ‒ Sonny, please call me back_ ), but he's not exactly feeling very generous towards the man at the moment. It stings, and it's painful, a sort of raw-rubbed scar across his chest that won't scab over, and Sonny's just…

_Tired._

_The cancer is within_ you, the monsignor had said. But that _couldn't be right_ , because God was love, and God didn't make mistakes, and his feelings were not a mistake.

His feelings _were not a mistake_.

Sonny had gone through this shit all through high school, and college, and he wasn't about to let bigotry and fear dictate how he lived again when he was just starting to feel comfortable in his own skin. It wasn't who he was as a person, not anymore, and to let that‒ that _rapist_ , that _pedophile_ , that _wolf_ in priest's clothing bring up this whirl of insecurities in him just made Sonny want to lock himself in his room and never come out again. Sonny was better than this, better than a man who preyed on girls to fulfill his sick fantasies, to hold power over weak men with weak hearts and souls.

" _He said that to you?_ " Ken suddenly says, and Sonny abruptly remembers he's still on the phone.

Sonny's been dreading this conversation with Ken, but he's also been desperate to talk to someone about it, too. He's not going to talk to his boss about breaking up with his boyfriend, and he's still not quite comfortable telling anyone else at work, so everyday has just been an endless loop of bitter smiles and brittle facades that crumble more and more the longer this case goes on.

"Yes," Sonny eventually whispers, and shame bubbles at the back of his throat.

There's a moment of quiet on the line, and then Ken whispers in one of the scariest voices he's ever heard from the other man, " _I'm gonna kick his_ ass."

Sonny rubs a knuckle against his eyelid. "Please don't kick his ass," Sonny mumbles. "I wasn't using church to avoid him," Sonny says eventually. _God is love, and God doesn't make mistakes. He's here, and He still loves me._ "I just‒ It's been a rough case."

" _I know, Sonny,_ " Ken says soothingly in his ear. " _But I'm still gonna kick his ass._ "

Sonny snorts, but it's fond, and he can't help the eyeroll that accompanies it. "Can't we just go out and have a nice time?" Sonny asks with a slight laugh.

" _Yes!_ " Ken immediately says. " _Yes, we will have the best time you've ever had in your life, Sonny! We'll flirt with the server and make horrible jokes and eat gross bar food ‒ listen, go to church, get your Catholic on, and call me after and we'll go out, okay?_ "

Sonny smiles, and it feels like it could be the beginnings of a real one. "Sure thing, Ken," he says. "See you soon."

" _I better,_ " comes the firm reply. " _If I have to spend another night bitching at someone who doesn't understand the pain of waiting to see whether or not they passed the bar, I'm going to pull my hair out._ "

"Thanks for reminding me," Sonny sourly says, and Ken's laughter follows him long after he's hung up the phone.

* * *

Work ends. Sonny goes to church, and while it's not quite the healing peace he'd been hoping for, it's a nice balm against the aches and pains of the day, and Sonny feels rejuvenated enough to actually be excited for seeing Ken and Connie.

They actually meet up at a sports bar near the Met, a cozy little place that Sonny has a feeling they picked because it's nothing like the bar Ken first took him to where he'd met Darren. It's sweet, if (probably) a little unnecessary. Ken pulls him into the booth beside him, leaving Connie to stretch out across from them.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering for you," Connie slyly starts, waving to a woman who is, presumably, their server. She's short and curvy, and wears her hair in a neat pleated braid tucked across her shoulder.

"I'm Cindy," she says with a wide grin, placing a tall drink that looks mildly toxic in front of them, as well as a pitcher of beer and some nachos on the table between them. "You let me know if you need anything at all, okay hon?"

"She's cute, right?" Connie asks with a wide grin, and Sonny smiles, because yes, she is, but‒

"She's also married, Connie," Sonny tells her, taking a sip of something that is probably mixed with illegal-as-hell moonshine, and sputters into his cup. It tastes like _gasoline_.

" _What_?" Ken and Connie both blurt, and Sonny's choke turns to laughter.

"She wasn't wearing a ring ‒ we checked!" Ken says with a pout.

"Chain around her neck," Sonny answers wisely before going for the nachos, and Connie rolls her eyes and says something uncharitable about his profession, so Sonny laughs again and flicks a string of cheese on her.

"Of course the cutest waitress here would be married," Connie huffs, making a face; she visibly steels herself and jabs her finger at Sonny. "Don't you worry, kid, we're gonna find you the perfect rebound booty."

"You really don't have to," Sonny says, but he feels kinda warm and fuzzy inside. It's nice to know they care. "I'm fine with just watching sports and hanging out."

Ken rolls his eyes. "That's not the _point_ , Sonny," he laughs, tugging playfully on Sonny's ear. "Rebound sex makes everyone who likes sex feel better ‒ it's a scientific _fact_."

"Was that published in a recent medical journal I don't know about?" Sonny mildly asks, and has to dodge a playful swat from Ken. He almost says _sex is what got me into trouble in the first place_ , but he holds his tongue, merely takes another swig of the battery acid that Connie ordered him. " _Jesus_ , what is in this drink?" he gasps.

"It's the special tonight," Connie grins, and downs her own glass in a few heavy swallows.

Sonny makes a face. "Your liver is going to explode," he tells her, but he finishes his own drink, and Connie orders them a few more and a plate of fries.

"So I'm waist deep in this freezing-ass fricking river," Connie says once they're all nice and tipsy, "and I'm trying to act tough I really am, but something touches my _goddamn foot_ and I freak out and wheelhouse backwards and Rita is laughing her ass off at me‒" Connie makes a disgusted face and shoves a fry in her mouth. "God, I hate camping."

"No one said you had to go," Ken says prettily, batting his lashes. He grabs onto Sonny's sleeve suddenly and says, "Okay, cute guy, three o'clock ‒ what do you think?"

Sonny takes a peek. There's a pale, skinny guy leaning against the bar talking to one of the bartenders while he sips his drink. He's got on a bomber jacket and a pair of dark jeans, and Sonny thinks he sees an eyebrow ring.

"He's more your type," Sonny says quietly; which is kind of silly, because Sonny doesn't _have_ a type, per se ‒ his girlfriends have been everything from short to tall to freckled to bony, and he's always ended up dating for personality more than anything. He's not _bad-looking_ , Sonny's just… "Does he even like men?" Sonny asks, changing the subject, and Ken grins like the cat that caught the canary.

"I have a sixth sense for these things," he sing-songs, slipping out of the booth and making a beeline towards the bar.

" _Ken_ ," Sonny hisses, because friggin' dammit, _not again_. " _I do not want rebound sex._ "

"If nothing else, you'll make a new friend," Connie snickers, and Sonny shoots her A Look.

Ken talks to the new guy for a few minutes, who keeps shooting quick, if interested glances in Sonny's direction, and when both of them saunter back to the booth, Ken takes the spot next to Connie, which just leaves Eyebrow Ring to sit beside Sonny.

"Hey," he says easily, grabbing a nacho. "I'm Phillip."

"Sonny," he returns, acutely aware of the matching grins Connie and Ken have on their faces. "Listen, I don't know what my _friend_ told you‒" Sonny shoots an accusing glare at Ken, "‒but, ah‒"

"Hey no man, it's cool," Phillip replies with a smirk. "He just said you liked my jacket is all."

It's obviously _not_ what Ken said is all, but Sonny lets the subject drop, and tries to continue the conversation with their newest addition, painfully cognizant of every maybe-possibly-probably-not accidental touch every time Sonny so much as shifts in his seat.

"Hey, I'm gonna go out for a smoke," Phillip eventually says; he flicks a meaningful glance at Sonny, and Ken and Connie shoot him twin grins of mischief.

"I'll come with you," Sonny says dryly, and he sees them high five under the table on his way out.

There's a bit of chill in the nighttime air, a sharp bite of cold mixed with thunder that promises rain, and Sonny takes a deep breath.

"Your friends are funny," Phillip says conversationally, flicking his cigarette butt to the cement and grinding the heel of his boot against it. He leans back against the wall of the building, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

Sonny cracks a grin. "Thanks. They can be kind of a pain, but they're pretty good people." It occurs to him that Phillip might have come out here because he wanted to talk one on one with Sonny, since Connie had pretty much dominated the conversation with hilarious camping anecdotes all night. "So what do you do, by the way?" Sonny asks, moving over to stand beside him. The brick is cool and rough against his sleeve, and the smell of cigarette ash wafts in the air between them.

Phillip gives a little half shrug, playing with the lid of his zippo. "Waiter," he says noncommittally. "I play guitar, though."

"That's cool," Sonny says with a grin; he wrinkles his nose and barks out a laugh. "I tried learning in high school ‒ let me tell you, that was a disaster. I shredded my fingertips the first week, I couldn't keep tempo ‒ I was just _awful_."

Phillip smirks. "Yeah, that'll uh, happen," he says, twisting around so he's facing Sonny instead of the street.

They're suddenly a lot closer. Sonny can pick out a tiny latticework of scars against Phillip's jawline, the telltale prick in his lower lip that says it used to be pierced. He smells like beer and smoke. "Do you like playing guitar?" Sonny asks then, feeling a jitter snake up his spine.

"Oh yeah," Phillip says easily, grinning. "It gets all the girls."

_Ken, you idiot_. Sonny bites at the inside of his cheek and forces another laugh out. _Sonny is an idiot_. "I'll bet it does. So um, listen, it was real nice to meet you and all‒"

"God, this is going to take forever," Phillip growls and fists his hand in the front of Sonny's sweater. He twists them around the corner and into the alleyway so they're not _quite_ visible from the street, and shoves Sonny up against the bricks. "That's better," he slyly says, and smashes his lips to Sonny's.

Well. Alright. Phillip tastes like hops and nicotine, and the greasy fries they'd all been munching on, but he's a decent kisser, and‒ you know, Sonny's only human. Sonny hums in the kiss, drags his hands up to tangle up in the hair at the nape of Phillip's neck.

Phillip drags his lips down Sonny's jaw, sinks his teeth into the meat of Sonny's neck. Sonny hisses, but his hips buck at the quick flash of pain, and Phillip laughs, hands going down to Sonny's belt.

"Woah, woah woah," Sonny says, holding a hand out. He is not about to have questionable sex with some guy in an alley he just met. He just got out of a relationship. He has _standards_. The whole thing is just moving way too fast for him. "Dude, hey, don't you think you should buy me dinner first?" Sonny jokes with a little laugh, grabbing Phillips hands and trying to drag them to a more respectable waist-height.

Phillip's fingers dig into Sonny's ribs, and he sucks at Sonny's pulse point. "Come on, baby," he croons, rolling his hips. "Nobody's gonna see."

"Actually, this is the kind of thing people get arrested for," Sonny cautiously starts; he's starting to get a bad feeling from this guy. Thunder booms, banging off the bricks around them. "You know what, it's been nice, but I think I'm just gonna go back inside‒"

"Hey, hey, hey, baby it's okay," Phillip soothes, hands moving down to cup Sonny's ass and there are _alarm bells_ going off in his head. "I'm gonna make this really good for you," he promises.

"I actually think I'm going to _leave_ now," Sonny says with some bite, and he moves to shove at Phillip's shoulder, but he can't quite get the traction he needs sandwiched between Phillip and the brick wall and ends up just kind of elbowing him. Phillip sinks his teeth into the same spot at Sonny's throat again, and Sonny says, "Okay, I'm not kidding, now is the time for you‒ to get off me‒" Sonny drives his knee up into Phillip's crotch, who lets out a scream and _bites down hard_ and _Jesus-frigging-Christ Sonny's going to need a Goddamned rabies shot‒_

Phillip stumbles back against the opposite wall, breathing hard and holding his junk and he spits out, " _What the fuck, you fucking fag_?"

Sonny's chest is heaving and his neck is on fire, but he stands up straight and glares down his nose at Phillip and says, "Maybe listen next time and you won't get kicked in the nuts." Sonny chokes on his next breath, and coughs, spitting onto the ground, and when he presses his fingertips to his neck, they come away bloody. _Shit_. Sonny spits again; he feels slimy, like he swallowed a mouthful of sewer water.

"I'm gonna _kick your ass_ ," Phillip wheezes, but he's still made no effort to move from his half-crouch against the bricks.

"You didn't bother asking what I do for a living," Sonny says then, resisting the urge to spit again, "so let me clue you in: either you get out of here right now, or I bust your ass for assaulting a police officer and drag you down to my station in cuffs. And not the fun kind."

"Agh, _fuck you_ , this is so not worth it," Phillip spits, hobbling to his feet and slamming past him.

Sonny sighs, sagging back against the bricks. His neck is killing him, he probably looks like shit, and he's suddenly very much not in the mood to go back into the bar to see Ken and Connie.

"Detective?"

Sonny's head whips up so fast he gets vertigo, and Sonny has to brace his hand on the wall to keep from toppling over.

"Barba," Sonny says, and locks eyes with Rafael.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello.........here I am.........here to bring you a chapter literally filled with nothing but Sonny and Rafael talking to each other :'))
> 
> also, mega huge shout out to greasy-sonny-carisi for being so amazing and letting me yell at her for hours on end about this thing lmao <333

He's dizzy.

_How much did he see?_ Sonny thinks, over and over, like a mantra, a broken record in his head. Lightning flashes overhead, highlighting the angles of Rafael's face, painting him a baroque figure in the half-light of the street. Thunder crackles. It's going to rain, Sonny notes dizzily, but all he can think right now is _how much did he see?_

His worldview narrows down to the sight before him ‒ of Rafael standing on the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, looking at Sonny like one would a frightened animal, ready to bolt at the slightest jolt. He's still dressed in his work attire, but there's what looks like a bag of takeout looped around his elbow and he's just friggin' _standing there_ and isn't he going to _say anything_?

Sonny's having trouble breathing.

"‒ _Carisi_." Sonny looks up at Rafael's tight face. He must've been calling his name for awhile. "Carisi, you're bleeding," Rafael says then. He's got a handkerchief of all things in his hand, extended out towards Sonny like he's afraid if he gets too close Carisi's just going to bolt. It's... not inaccurate.

"Oh," Sonny says. He's staring at the sidewalk again, but he takes the handkerchief, and brings it up to gingerly prod at his neck. Yeah, it still frigging stings. "I'll put a bandaid on it," Sonny says.

Rafael grimaces. "You should go to the ER," he says decisively. "What if it needs stitches?"

Sonny snorts and shakes his head. "I'm not going to need stitches," he tells Rafael, but presses the cloth more firmly to his neck. "I'll put some peroxide on it ‒ it'll be fine." He's desperate to change the subject, so he asks Barba's pocket square, "So, ah, what brings you out here, Counselor?" and nearly smacks himself. Not one of his better openers.

"I live nearby," Rafael says. "I figured I'd grab dinner then walk home." He looks conflicted, tight lines of‒ something, worrying his face, and Sonny hates that he put them there, but he also really, _really_ does not want to talk about this. He's exhausted, and in pain, and his nice quiet night out has rapidly become neither of those things. "Carisi‒" Barba starts again, a million lawyer-sharp questions on his lips.

"Please don't," Sonny whispers in a tight, pleading voice, and Rafael's mouth snaps shut.

It starts to sprinkle, a little pitter-pattering of rain ghosting their hair and clothes, and Rafael makes another face, torn between staying and arguing with Sonny, or getting a move on before it really starts to pour.

Sonny sighs. "Mind if I walk with you?" he asks.

"What?" Rafael asks; and this would be hilarious, that Sonny's rendered Barba _absolutely speechless_ , if not for the fact that it's because the Manhattan ADA just caught Sonny kicking some guy in the nuts because he got too handsy.

"I need to clear my head," Sonny says then, and does he ever. "And if I'm still bleeding when we get to your place, I'll go to the ER." He brings two fingers up and flashes a small smile. "Scout's honor."

The concern melts from his face, just like that, and Rafael rolls his eyes, muttering, "Of course you were a boy scout." He takes off with quick strides, leaving Sonny to stumble off the brick wall and hurry after him.

Sonny's grin widens. "Made it all the way to Eagle Scout," he boasts, puffing his chest out. "What about you? You ever join the scouts?"

Rafael scoffs. "God, no," he says. The moisture in the air's made his hair start to frizz, tiny locks of hair curling against his forehead and the nape of his neck, and Sonny absentmindedly thinks _how adorable_ before he can help himself. "I was too busy being a bookworm to dirty myself with rope tying or‒" Rafael wrinkles his nose, "‒ _camping_."

"Hey, come on, camping's fun," Sonny says easily, stuffing his free hand in his pocket. He presses the handkerchief against his neck again to distract himself. "You get to make s'mores and tell spooky stories and look up at the stars ‒ it's _fun_."

Rafael shoots him a look somewhere between disgust and disbelief. "I bet you make apple pie on the Fourth of July, too," he says dryly, and‒ okay, so what if he does? It's _delicious_.

Sonny laughs anyway. "You got something against fruit pie, Counselor?" he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Apples are good for you."

"Not when you coat them with lard and sugar," Rafael shoots back, and the sprinkling sky picks up into a steady rain. " _Shit_ ," Rafael hisses, ducking under a nearby awning. He looks at Sonny expectantly from his hiding spot, but Sonny's feet are rooted to the earth, and suddenly all he wants to do is dance in the rain like he's eight years old again. He doesn't want to think about his repeated, miserable attempts at navigating his sexuality, or the dark, ugly truths of the Catholic church, and he definitely doesn't want to think about the fact that he just got outed to another co-worker against his will. He just wants to slip back into the ease of childhood, of splashing in rain puddles with his sisters, and drinking hot cocoa with his mom and dad when they were still the ones Sonny trusted to chase away the monsters under the bed.

Cool rain water splashes onto his face, his hair, his clothes, and Sonny tilts his cheeks up to the sky and slides his eyes shut, letting the storm wash away his aches and pains. If he concentrates, he almost feels like he's young again.

"Okay, I was going to let this whole debacle slide," Rafael calls out, "but I am _seriously worried_ about your mental status right now, Detective."

Sonny laughs, and catches water on his tongue, and spins around to grin at Rafael. "You know it's just water, right Counselor?" he asks. "It's not gonna hurt you."

"Why, I had _no idea_ ," Rafael shouts at him, looking at Sonny for all the world like he's gone insane. "Thank you _so much_ for letting me know, Carisi!" Then he spins on his heel and starts stalking off down the block, keeping under cover as much as he can.

There aren't many people out walking, both because of the hour and weather, so Sonny has the sidewalk to himself and Rafael doesn't have to dodge too many pedestrians in his effort to stay dry. Eventually the weather clears, and Rafael sighs in relief, jerks his thumb towards the building across the street. "This is me," he says then, and readjusts the bag on his arm. "‒Thanks. For walking with me."

Sonny feels himself flush, a shock of heat in his cheeks against the cold wetness on his skin, and he wonders if that sounded as 'end of a date' to Rafael as it did to Sonny. "Yeah," Sonny says, and he's so friggin' pissed at himself, because this is his _friend_ and some douchewad literally just _bit him_ so he's gotta be projecting or some shit because normal people did not go around reading into every little nuance in conversation.

Rafael frowns. "Listen, Carisi‒" he starts, and the sky opens up above them.

Sonny looks at Rafael, and together they bolt across the street, water soaking up their pants legs, into their shoes and socks, the shocking, cold damp settling into their bones. They're lucky they don't get hit by a car, sprinting blindly through the deluge like their asses are on fire and Rafael's apartment building is their only blessed reprieve.

Sonny slides up first, slamming hand-first against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the building's entryway, his breath coming out in heavy pants, clouding against the glass in front of him. Rafael skids next to him a few seconds later, one hand fisted in his pants leg above his knee. He's half hunched over, disastrously out of breath, and Sonny can't help the snort of laughter that bubbles past his lips. The thought that Barba was _out of shape_ had never crossed his mind, but seeing him gasp for air beside him is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week.

Rafael shoots Sonny a venomous glare. "Fine," he gasps out. "You can stay out here in your soaking wet clothes, and I'll just go upstairs and change into my nice, warm, and dry ones."

"What‒ no, _Barba_ ," Sonny wheezes. They're both shivering, and if Rafael looks like a drowned rat, Sonny has to look ten times worse ‒ he's never been much a fan of wearing his hair down, and right now it's plastered to his face in thick, curled clumps, dripping water down his cheeks, his nose. But the image of Rafael shaking off his limbs like some poor, soaked cat is too much for Sonny to handle right now, so all he can do is lean against the glass and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Rafael rolls his eyes and digs a keycard out of a sopping wet pocket, and Sonny thinks that's going to be the end of it, but he holds the door open for Sonny behind him, calls a "Come on, Detective," over his shoulder. The doorman shoots them both a sympathetic look, but all Rafael says is, "Don't ask, George," and strides to the elevator like he isn't squeaking and dripping all over the gleaming white tile.

Barba's apartment building is pristine (not that Sonny would expect anything less from one of New York's best ADA's), and while they drip all over the elevator, there are enough strategically placed towels and rain rugs in the hallway that Sonny doesn't feel bad for squeezing some of the excess water from his sleeves.

"Stay here," Rafael orders when they get inside, toeing off what are probably his now very _ruined_ expensive shoes. "I don't want you dripping all over my apartment!" he calls over his shoulder, disappearing around the corner.

Sonny very graciously neglects to mention that _Barba_ is currently the only one dripping all over his apartment, but he stays put, yanking off his shoes, slicking his hair back out of his face.

Rafael appears a minute later, sans sopping wet suit, a stack of towels in his arms. He's wearing a soft, well-worn t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and his feet are bare against the hardwood floor. It feels… oddly intimate, seeing the counselor like this, and Sonny feels like a fool, standing in his soaked socks and church attire here in Barba's personal space.

Rafael tosses one of the towels on the floor and toes it under Sonny's feet, then hands Sonny another towel. It's soft and thick, and feels wonderful against his skin. "You're not wearing anything dry clean only, are you?" Rafael asks, tousling a smaller towel through his hair. It makes his hair stand up in little tufts on his head. "I've probably got something you can change into if you don't mind waiting for the dryer."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say _no thanks_ , that Sonny can just dip out from here, but he's freezing and shivering and it's still pouring outside, so what he says instead is, "Nah, it's all dryer-friendly. Thanks."

Rafael just makes a noncommittal noise and leads him to the bathroom. One of the towels is actually a pile of clothes that Barba thrusts awkwardly at him then turns around and waves at the closet door opposite the bathroom. "Dryer's in here," he says. "I'm. Gonna go make some tea."

"Not coffee?" slips out of Sonny's mouth before he can help himself.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do sleep sometimes, Carisi," Barba snips and shuts the door in his face.

It's an awkward affair stripping out of wet, clinging clothes, but Sonny manages, throwing his pants and shirt over the edge of the sink and burrowing into the warmth of his towel. There's a couple different things in the pile Rafael gave him, but Sonny is very much taller than the ADA, so what he ends up wearing is a pair of sweats that have been hacked off at the cuff, which make him feel a lot less silly when they only end up reaching about mid-calf on him. The edges of Barba's sweatshirt are soft and frayed, and there's an old ink stain on the knee of his pants, and it makes Sonny feel‒

Well. _Weird_. It all kind of clashes with the the fancy suits and ties, his attitude, his living space. He'd wonder if Barba had intentionally gave him ratty clothes to wear to like, insult him or something, but Rafael had come out wearing clothes in similar condition ‒ comfortable, well-worn, well taken care of. And the _HARVARD_ lettering stamped across the front of the hoodie Sonny'd slipped on certainly doesn't hurt.

"Did you have to throw your Harvard jacket in here, Barba?" Sonny yells out with a laugh as he tosses his things in the dryer.

"I figured I'd let you live vicariously through me," Rafael slyly calls back, and Sonny snorts, spins the dial to _energy preferred_ and hits the start button.

Sonny finds Rafael huddled in a lump on his couch when he comes out, hands clasped around a steaming mug, feet tucked up under him. The TV's on, but it's on mute, and there's a matching mug of tea on a glass coffee table, strategically placed between the opposite end of the couch and the loveseat perpendicular him.

Sonny takes the couch and gets comfortable, grabs the mug of tea. "Anything good on?" he casually asks, taking a slow sip. It's green tea, not too strong or sweet.

Barba shrugs. "There's DS9 reruns," he answers. He fiddles with the remote, fingers tap dancing a nonsensical tune across the plastic.

"No kidding? Turn it on ‒ I love Garak," Sonny says with a grin.

Rafael shoots Sonny a look out of the corner of his eye. "I would have pegged you a Bashir or Sisko fan," he says slowly, as if testing the waters.

Sonny beams, says, "What can I say? I like the morally grey characters."

Barba hums, but turns the volume up to a low buzz, switches the captions on. It's one of the later seasons, judging by Kira's hair and the uniforms, but Sonny's not really paying attention, and he can tell Rafael isn't either.

"You might as well just ask," Sonny eventually says when Rafael gives up all pretenses of watching Odo and Quark argue to just flick glances in Sonny's direction.

"How's your neck?" Rafael asks instead.

"It'll be sore tomorrow," Sonny says with a shrug; he'd washed it off in the bathroom. It looked worse than it was. Sonny tips back his cup and finishes the tea he was drinking, sets the cup down on the glass with a soft _clack_. "Barba‒" he starts.

"Are you okay, Carisi?" Rafael asks, turning to face Sonny.

"Do I not look okay?" Carisi blurts, because this is the second time in so many weeks someone has asked him that, and if he looks so shitty that people like Liv and _Barba_ are asking after his well-being, maybe he is doing that bad.

"No, I‒" Barba struggles with his words for a second. "It's been a rough case," Rafael eventually says, unknowingly echoing Sonny's words from earlier that evening. "The photos, the priests, the monsignor…" Barba sighs, tips his head back against the couch. "I know it's got to be hitting you harder than most," Rafael quietly admits.

_The cancer isn't in my church._

Sonny's shivering again, but he's not cold so much as he's just… numb. "Most priests aren't like them," Sonny says quietly. "There's no higher calling than wanting to devote your life to God." But the monsignor had said‒

"I know," Rafael whispers; Sonny turns, ever so slightly, to look over at Barba. He looks uncomfortable, but resolute, and Sonny isn't exactly sure what Rafael's stance on faith is, but he's making an effort to understand Sonny and that's more than enough right now.

" _I think I'm falling in love with her,_ " Shakaar says on the television.

_The cancer isn't in my church_ , the monsignor had said. _It's within_ you _._

But God didn't _make mistakes._

Sonny's chest hurts. "Is it?" Sonny asks out loud. Were his feelings a mistake? "Was he right?"

"What?" Barba asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"Is the cancer in me?" Sonny whispers. To his horror, he feels his eyes begin to ache, his throat begin to close. His mouth tastes like beer and cigarette ash. He misses Darren. Was God no longer here? Did God not love him?

" _I'm afraid to say anything because it might ruin our friendship,_ " Shakaar says distantly. " _But if I don't, I could be letting something precious slip through my fingers._ "

_The cancer isn't in My Church._

"‒ny. _Sonny!_ "

Sonny jerks; Rafael is right beside him, one hand solidly on his shoulder, and Rafael says, "I need you to breathe with me, Sonny." Rafael inhales, and Sonny follows, repeats. "That's good, Sonny, that's good. Keep breathing." 

Sonny opens his mouth to speak, but there's still not enough air in his lungs, so he just nods and focuses on breathing in and out, of letting Rafael's warm fingers anchor him to the earth.

"I want you to listen to me," Rafael says slowly, deliberately. "Look at me, Sonny. There is no cancer in you." Sonny looks up, and his eyes are filled with sand. "The only cancer is in that _man_ ," Rafael spits out the word like a curse, like the very thought of the monsignor fills him with unbridled rage, "and the men who abused those girls. They deserve to rot in prison for what they've done. You haven't done anything wrong," Rafael whispers, and his fingers dig into Sonny's shoulder.

"But I‒" Sonny's throat is still so raw. He chokes on a laugh, and his vision is hot and blurry. "I thought it would be easier," Sonny confesses. And shouldn't it have been? "I thought everyone would just click into place once I‒ once I admitted‒" Sonny pulls the words out, but they're dragging on his teeth, sticking to his lips. "Once I admitted that I liked men. That I was bisexual. But I… I keep fucking everything up." Shouldn't everything have slid into place? Shouldn't it have been picturesque ‒ like slipping on a glove made to fit, like everything being right with the world?

"Wouldn't that be nice?" Rafael murmurs, and there's a hint of a smile on his lips, a small pained thing, and he squeezes Sonny's shoulder again. "You are not defined by the sum of your relationships, Carisi," Rafael eventually says. "You're just as bisexual whether you date twenty guys, or end up marrying some girl from Mississippi, or spend your life alone with nothing but your law books to keep you company."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Sonny whispers.

Rafael's face softens, and so does his smile. "Because we take care of our own," he answers ambiguously, and the atmosphere in the room shifts, electrifies almost.

There's something in the air between them ‒ something fragile and timid, that feels like it might shatter any moment. Sonny's not sure what the right response is, or if there even is one. He wants the rain to never stop, to sit here and drink tea with Barba and watch old DS9 reruns till the sun comes up and both of them have bags under their eyes.

It's not quite cocoa with his parents, but the monsters are gone all the same.

"If this is your idea of trying to toughen my skin up for cross," Sonny says with some humor, "then I'm gonna have to call bullshit, Counselor."

Rafael's eyes are so green. "No," he says. "Stay good. It'll make you a better lawyer than any of us."

"Even if I wanna be an ADA?" Sonny asks, and he can't quite keep that hopeful note out of his voice.

" _Especially_ if you want to be an ADA," Rafael says firmly. His hand is still on Sonny's shoulder.

Sonny thinks this moment is important.

"Carisi," Rafael starts.

The dryer beeps.

Rafael stills, draws his hand back casually, and quirks his lips up in a little half grin. "I'll go get your clothes," he says.

He should feel alone, awkward, but Sonny feels warm, all the way down to his toes.


End file.
